


Part II - Right of Deception

by wyval



Series: Hammer Effect [2]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Mass Effect Trilogy, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-12-23 21:33:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11998383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyval/pseuds/wyval





	1. Chapter 1

_ The post-victory celebrations are sweeping across the masses of people as they rejoice at the destruction of Sovereign and the defeat of Saren. The reformed Citadel Council is scrambling to rebuild the damages to the center of the galactic government, while quelling the various dissenting voices from the member races. Optimism and determination fills the populace, as the press releases and official reports create new heroes to stand against the cold onslaught of unfeeling machines. Men and women like Nihlus Kryik, Tela Vasir, Admirals Vipsania and Hackett, and Alexander Shepard become almost household names practically overnight, the politicians scrambling to capitalize on personal connections to them or to gain their support for their own agendas.  _

_ Yet for all that merriment, that hopeful view, dark things are stirring in the void and within the hearts of the galactic society. As the Council races slowly spin up their war machines, intent on eradicating the geth for all, there are those who work to turn that effort to their petty advantage. The secrets behind the newly started military buildup are not nearly as well hidden in shadows as the powers that be would like. The unknown entity that corrupted Saren and the geth is slowly but inexorably drawing closer to enact its will upon the mostly-unsuspecting galaxy. _

_ The faint, distant laughter of thirsting gods echoes faintly in the distance, as the calm before the storm becomes ever more strained, the starry void already rumbling with the sounds of carnage and conflict. _

_ Part II – Right of Deception _

#  **Prologue**

##  15/03/2183, Anadius System - a week after the First Battle of the Citadel

Jack Harper smiled with genuine pleasure as he leaned back in his chair, watching the ever-shifting patterns of the surface of Anadius. The view of the star and the void felt calming to him as always; here he felt at home, more ready to make plans, to orchestrate the fulfilment of the vision of Cerberus. And he could not deny that his present company was also a serious contributor to his happiness.

“He did better than we hoped for, even with leaving the old Council alive. With Udina a member and the quarians in our debt, humanity’s position is stronger than ever before. But still, it is likely not enough.” The voice was a husky contralto, and Jack allowed his gaze to drift from the star’s surface to the rather striking figure standing at the viewport in a crisp navy uniform adorned with the insignia of a captain.

“We may have serious influence in the Council, but currently, Shepard seems to be our best bet.”

“Yes, but officially, he is being sent to fight geth.” The woman snorted. “I know that’s mostly just smoke and mirrors, and that Hackett means well, but come on. We both know that the geth are not the real threat, not by a long shot. The Reapers and their controller are still out there.”

A drag from the cigar.

“And it’s up to us to stop them, wouldn’t you say?”

The woman turned towards him, narrowed emerald eyes boring into artificial blue ones.

“The Council would not trust Cerberus. Hell, the Alliance does not trust Cerberus. Neither will accept open help from us, even after all that humanity did.”

She touched a screen, enlarged the picture of the first human Spectre, a small satisfied smile on her lips, her whole stance radiating pride and affection.

“But they’ll listen to Alex. He’s a hero, on his way to becoming a damned icon.” She shook her head, her smile turning rueful. “But he’s just one man, despite all his considerable accomplishments. If we lose him, humanity might not have enough time to procure alternatives, especially since both Yildirim and Pieterzoon dropped off the grid.”

Another drag from the cigar, a puff of smoke exhaled.

“Then we’d better see to it that we don’t lose him.” His smile turned predatory, as his gaze flitted over streams of data, looking for patterns, opportunities, feasible assets. He sighed, and took a sip from his glass, before leaning back.

“You have that look again, Jack. Out with it.”

“I think I can find a way to convince Matriarch Trellani to argue for a small, joint human-asari task force touring some of the smaller colonies having asari presence in the Terminus.”

She tilted her head to the side, frowned in thought.

“That could work, but you’d have to be very persuasive for Admiral Singh to detach the  _ Orizaba  _ for that kind of duty.” She snorted as she saw his raised eyebrows and incredulous stare, and her voice gained an edge of dangerous growl. “Honestly, Jack - did you think for a moment that I would stand aside forever? That I would always place duty and regulations over my personal feelings?” She prowled closer, a hand alighting on the back of the Cerberus leader’s chair, the metal warping under her grip. Emerald eyes shone with a furious passion as she glared at him. “Did you think that I would always ignore my own damned son, just because that’s needed for your plans?”

He did not break eye contact, and remained calm, even though it took a greater effort of will than he thought.

“No, Hannah. I may have held a small amount of hope for that, but we are only human.” He flashed a wan smile at her. “After all, if we were not prone to failures of self-control, it is likely that your son would be rather different.”

The only warning he got was the flare of fury and something else in those green eyes, then her slap almost threw him from his chair, before she leaned close, their faces only a few inches apart as flashing green eyes glared into cool, detached blues, the air crackling between the two of them.

A chime sounded from the control panel, indicating an incoming call. Not breaking the contact or their gaze, the Illusive Man forced his voice to be calm, detached, as he opened a voice-only comm channel.

“Yes, Miss Chambers?”

“Your other appointment is here, sir. Shall I send him in?”

For a second, he was tempted to say no, before Hannah decided for him. With a glare that promised future retribution, she stood up, took a step to the side and was once more the picture of military grace and efficiency. After all, the other caller arrived on her ship. Jack signalled his yeoman that she could allow the visitor to enter, and he considered the newcomer for the few moments it took for the man to cross the office and reach Jack and Hannah. He could feel the woman’s surprise as he rose from his chair and extended a hand towards the other man.

“Welcome, Captain Ryder. I invited you here to talk to you about the Andromeda Initiative.”

* * *

 

##  Khar’shan, Hegemon’s palace (16/03/2183)

Captain Balak was torn between elation and dread as he obeyed the summons of Admiral Gromel, and presented himself at the audience chamber of the Hegemon. He pondered the possible reasons for this trek - although he was a proud and distinguished member of the warrior caste, with several successful operations under his belt (including killing a team of those accursed N7s), his family was not nearly important enough for such a personal audience. He frowned in thought. Maybe it was due to those mysterious new allies that have been speculated about amongst External Force operatives - of course, there was nothing definite available about them, the Department of Information Control was as useful as always. And the fact that he was outside Hegemony space for the last months, tracking Alliance and Council fleet movements did not help his awareness of the Khar’shan situation. Still, he could not recall any misdeed or failure that would merit such a censure, so he managed to get himself into a more positive mood by the time he reached the audience chamber.

As usual, the security was extremely tight, and Balak was stripped of his weapons and armor before he was allowed into the presence of the Hegemon. In a deep corner of his mind, he scoffed at the paranoia - as if anyone could take on the Hegemon in a straight fight! Still, he obeyed the guards with alacrity, showing proper respect and deference - and then he stepped into the vast, shadowed chamber, where only the throne of the Hegemon and the Pillars of Strength shone with soft light, creating an aura of otherworldliness around the glorious batarian seated on the throne.

Balak saluted, symbolically offering his heart and life to the Hegemon, using the privilege allotted to members of his caste, and locked his eyes on his leader, his heart soaring at the magnificent perfection of the powerful, regal figure on his throne, the four golden eyes staring at him with the wisdom of ages, unfathomable power in every gesture of the man. Balak suppressed the urge to fall to his knees in adoration, that was what lower castes did, a warrior had to be stronger than that. Looking at the Hegemon, he was once again struck by the ridiculousness of anyone trying to attack the perfect warrior. The mere thought of such stupidity almost made him chuckle.

Face schooled into a stony mask of determination, he approached the throne, only noting Admiral Gromel’s presence when the other batarian seemed to materialize from the shadows. Balak saluted once more, his superior returning the gesture with a measure of respect. The luminous being above them gestured, and the admiral spoke.

“Captain Balak, you are to be commended for your efforts in the last months. You have shown proper skill and determination in executing the directives set forth by the Hegemon while also adhering to the proper forms required by the Pillars.” He smiled a predator’s grin, the malice obvious, just like the fact that it was not directed at Balak. “Thus, you have been selected for an important assignment.” 

Balak saluted.

“If the Hegemon commands me through you, I obey.”

Their lord gestured once again, and a screen came alive on the wall, displaying a system that was familiar to the captain. The admiral nodded in affirmation.

“I see you recognized the place, captain Balak. Good.” His omnitool flashed, and the view zoomed in to the vast shipyard, and Balak’s eyes narrowed, a hiss of fury slipping from his mouth before he could control himself.

“Yes, that was about my reaction as well. Would you concur with our intelligence analysts in saying that there are two dreadnoughts and three, possibly four carriers being built right now?”

Balak studied the screen for a few seconds, calculating size, looking for patterns, shapes, then nodded.

“Yes, admiral, that would be my estimate as well.” He closed his mouth before he could go on, not wanting to breach protocol by offering unwanted opinion. His jaw dropped when the magnificent figure on the throne made another gesture, its meaning known to all members of the warrior caste, yet at the same time, everyone knew how infrequently it was employed. Balak risked a glance at the admiral for confirmation on what he saw, and Gromel nodded with a very faint smile.

“Speak, captain. You would not have been invited if your opinion was not valued.”

Balak bowed, first towards the Hegemon, then to the admiral.

“Lords, I suspect there is something off with these human ships, particularly the dreadnought. They don’t look like their new Kilimanjaro-class vessels, the profile and shape is different. Admittedly, it is subtle, but the difference is there.”

“Good, captain. Now, what would you deduce from these schematics?” A gesture from the admiral’s omnitool, and the view changed, displaying weapon schematics. Balak studied them for half a minute, before he shook his head.

“Those data can’t be right. The damn humans could not have developed this. There is no way to provide enough power, unless...” Balak frowned, then swallowed. “Unless they use their Yutani-Yi reactors for power.” The admiral nodded, and Balak had to swallow again. “Then, lord, this would be a dreadnought-scale positron cannon.”

The admiral nodded once, before turning towards the Hegemon.

“That is the conclusion of the analysts as well. This presents a dire threat for the Hegemony, Lord.”

“As our allies predicted, admiral.” Golden eyes flared. “Now, enlighten captain Balak about his assignment.”

The admiral saluted once again, gestured with his omnitool. Screens lit up, and Balak was inundated by the torrent of information and details displayed on them, as his eyes flitted over the monitors, trying to absorb at least a rough idea about what was displayed - yet the one thing that was the most striking to him was the extreme detail. Ground patrols, emergency channels, encryption keys, command roster - he caught and processed only glimpses of the vast amount of information, but that was enough for now.

“We will conduct a proper briefing later, captain. For now, hear the directive of the Hegemon. You will lead a force to Terra Nova, and destroy the shipyards” a flash of the omnitool, and the system view filled the largest screen. “By redirecting the asteroid designated as X57 to a collision course with the planet. You will be allowed to select your troops personally.”

Balak saluted, his body language betraying his hesitation. The Hegemon noticed.

“You were granted leave to speak your mind, captain - and you can do so without fear of repercussion. I suggest you do so now.”

The captain swallowed, then snapped to attention.

“Lord, while the sheer detail and amount of information is excellent for planning purposes, and the admiral’s gracious offer about troops eliminates that worry, I still cannot see how we could get close enough. Our own ships would be detected and destroyed before we could get close enough to launch shuttles; we would simply throw away quality troops. I believe a ballistic strike from the outer system would fail as well due to the Alliance defenses.”

He closed his eyes for a second, before once again meeting the gaze of the Hegemon.

“Lord, I will lead the task force if commanded, but I strongly advise that we seek an alternative, as we do not have the means to get to the asteroid’s surface.”

A very faint sound drew his attention, a strange, faint buzzing, as if immense insect wings were beating a rapid rhythm. His eyes narrowed into the deep shadows of the throne room, where he could perceive a darker shape stepping closer from the base of a Pillar. 

For a moment, Balak could not place the strange figure; he was sure that he has seen or heard of similar creatures in the Terminus … but they were supposed to be legends. The insectile humanoid stepped closer to them, its four eyes glowing with merciless yellow light, and a deep bass voice echoed in the chamber.

“ **THE ANSWER TO THAT PROBLEM NECESSITATES OUR DIRECT INTERVENTION, CAPTAIN BALAK.** ”

* * *

 

##  Zakera Ward, Citadel (16/03/2183)

They always came at night. Of course, that was their nature, their domain - even in the regulated, artificial cycles of the Citadel, they came at night, and there was precious little defense against them, especially after the recent events.

_ Cyclopean spires and towers gleamed in the dark depths like the teeth of voracious deep-sea predators, hungry for the souls and sanity of the unwary explorers, the siren song of vast knowledge and power too alluring for most to resist. _

_ Colors and smoke swirled in lazy columns on the sky over a mist-shrouded city whose peacefulness was a facade covering secrets from beyond the gulf of time, the weight of ages settling with an immense, soul-numbing pressure on everything. _

_ A darkened pathway leading from a snowy mountainside to the bowels of the earth, into the womb of the world and beyond, until the arrival to a distant, cold plateau under foreign, unknown stars that glared down at the surface with alien menace. _

_ A black pyramid under a sky dominated by a vast black hole in time, space and reality, the moaning, squirming sentinels impaled on rows and rows of stakes still horribly alive despite being long dead and rotting. _

_ A cold, dark, brilliant being of engines, machines, compassionless intelligence and self-interest, the triumphant ascendance of the immense draconic shape burned away by a storm of golden light and a storm of lightning. _

_ A pair of glowing emerald eyes under greying red hair, staring with implacable determination, without compassion, cold and distant - only distant, faint, subtle signs that this is a facade, and only when everything has turned to void-hardened ice. _

_ A dark chamber full of needles, cables and restraints, its embrace, its very being carrying a promise of pain and knowledge, before the jaws of the iron maiden snap shut, and there is only darkness, made only more terrifying by the flashes of gold in the distance, the waves of power and knowledge searing into the brain, threatening memories, self, soul. _

_ Words and sounds written in blood and other fluids on skin-bound ancient folios, their meanings and implications pulling the mind towards the yawning vortex of insanity at the center of everything; the price and lure of power and knowledge echoing in the void. _

_ A beautiful, elegant woman clad in silk, her face a cold mask of concentrated fury and disdain, a violin under her chin, her bow flashing over the strings as the audience and reality bleeds and the chorus of the tormented screams provides an unholy counterpoint to the hauntingly beautiful music of the spheres flashing from the instrument. _

_ Sparkling blue eyes shaded by a golden mane, affection and happiness drowning in a blanket of golden warmth.  Other faces, some smiling, some scowling, some furious or envious, a cacophony of impressions howling across the dark, with the underlying concept of loyalty embedded deep within. _

_ Fire, blood, and blades in dark tunnels under the surface of an ill-fated distant moon, the command of a cold, distant voice echoes in the depths as the ritual circle is closed once again, the words of power falling from burned lips, and then there is only a tide of darkness, whispers, eyes, teeth and blood, drowning and consuming all in its path, flooding the tunnels, coming straight for… _

Liara awoke with a throat sore from screaming, her omnitool flashing to indicate a recently arrived message. She took a shuddering breath, trying hard to focus and get her breathing under control, to banish the images haunting her dreams since the day of Sovereign’s destruction. A treacherous corner of her mind pinpointed the other, more logical reason for the visions, but she did her level best to ignore the insistent voice. She may have been inexperienced, her feeling unrequited and perhaps truly only a short-term crush typical of maidens, but she would not betray that single moment of weakness when he let down his guard in the moment of triumph. 

She closed her eyes, centered herself, running through the meditative exercises taught to her so long ago by her mother, and reasoned calmness returned slowly. She reached for her omnitool, opening the message, and despite her tiredness and the nightmares, did not suppress the small smile as she saw his invitation to Flux - and then she chuckled ruefully when she realized that the party was for the whole Normandy crew.

With a sigh, she typed a quick affirmative, and a query about the study session the two of them planned for the afternoon - and which was becoming a recurring, awaited part of her daily routine. She frowned in thought as she considered the implications of her telling Shepard about her nightmares - and she knew that sooner or later, she would have to be honest with him, tell him that she saw a part of his memories. Though considering his surprisingly broad knowledge, he might have puzzled it out already, and was just being polite by not embarrassing her…

Liara shook her head, the speculation was useless. She had work to do - even though nobody had officially given her the assignment, she did her best to look for clues and tracks the  _ Normandy _ could later explore in their search for the trail of Saren and Sovereign.

* * *

 

##  Spectre Offices, Citadel (16/03/2183)

If not for the tension crackling in the air, Tela Vasir would have laughed the blue off her ass at the situation - really, it was quality material for stupid jokes the humans usually invented and were about unlikely groups of beings walking into a bar. Even with her more than two centuries within the Spectre Corps, this group took the cake when it came to strangeness. As she was leaning back in her chair, she let her eyes wander around the conference table, taking in and assessing her colleagues sitting there.

Jondum Bau, the salarian who was no longer the informal leader of the Spectre Corps, and whose cold determination and willingness to destroy the Citadel to deny victory to Saren left even Tela a little in awe.

Nihlus Kryik she regarded with a faint, fond smile. The man was doing well now that he was finally out of Saren’s shadow, and his defense of the Council Tower was already an unofficial part of the future training packages.

Alexander Shepard, the current darling of the masses for his defeat of Saren - and in light of his performance during the whole crisis and what she knew about N7s, Tela considered that he earned that fame and adoration. She smirked to herself when she considered the reactions of the hidebound Matriarchs and Justicars back on Thessia when they would come knocking for Benezia’s spawn, and Shepard would likely throw them out the nearest airlock. Her smirk turned vicious. In fact, she just might help the human with that - or provide an alibi for him.

Urdnot Wrex was another first - no krogan was even considered for Spectre candidacy, but after a quick research she conducted through informal channels, Tela considered the krogan who was strongly suspected of having broken Omega’s famous rule (in more ways than one) and lived to tell about it (not that he ever did) to be the best candidate for the first krogan Spectre. Not to mention that he was likely one of the few remaining battlemasters with a vision for their race that did not involve throwing themselves at everyone to avenge past grievances.

All things considered, things were promising to become rather interesting, and she chuckled softly as she watched the ongoing staring match between Bau and Wrex.

“We fought a war for your kind, died in millions to vanquish the rachni and the Council repaid us with the genophage, dooming us to a slow, lingering death. Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch your females and unborn children die, unable to do anything to help?” The krogan’s voice was soft, polite, controlled; yet Tela could not stop a shiver down her spine at the sheer menace and tightly controlled wrath behind it. “Does any of that seem right to you?”

“Wrex, we have been over this.” The asari nodded towards Nihlus when the turian managed not to flinch under the warlord’s baleful stare at his interruption. “The krogan could have slowed down their reproduction, to appear just a little less aggressive...”

“Irrelevant. Not here to play blame game or pick at old wounds.” Bau’s voice was cold, his gaze not wavering from Wrex. “Don’t care about past actions. Cannot alter them, and would not anyway. Decisions seemed right at that time.” A sharp exhale, a quick shake of the head. “Precious little time to argue. Wrex, you are a Spectre. Tell me what you need to do what must be done.”

The old warlord glared at Bau for a few moments longer, before he let out a rumbling chuckle.

“You do got a quad, Bau.” He keyed his datapad, the viewscreen displaying a list of resources.

There was a short silence as the other four Spectres contemplated the display, then Shepard turned towards Wrex.

“Did you drink one too many bottles of ryncol, Wrex?” 

“No.”

“Did you get hit on the head?”

“No.”

“Did you piss off Tali so she hacked your datapad in revenge?”

“No.” Wrex chuckled. “She would be more creative than that, you should know.” He looked over the other Spectres, taking in their expressions. “What?”

Bau raised a hand to his head, and Nihlus coughed uncomfortably. Tela decided she had enough, and stopped suppressing her giggle fit. The betrayed looks from Nihlus and Wrex only made her laugh harder.

“Wrex. If you do not take this seriously, I am throwing you out the airlock myself.” Bau’s tone was irritated. The krogan snorted.

“What, you want me to cut the list down some more?”

“No. Just explain why it is so short before I lose my patience and put a bullet in your head.” In any other circumstance, Bau’s voice would have made Tela go to full combat readiness, but here, she could only try and mostly fail to get her giggling under control. Wrex shrugged and leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight.

“We don’t exactly have scientists with the proper fields of study. That’s the only thing I need.” The warlord smiled a predator’s grin. “Anything else, I can get on my own, even without Spectre credentials.”

Bau considered for a moment, appeared to hesitate before he spoke.

“Sure about that, Wrex? We need to have a unified krogan state as soon as possible.”

The old krogan shrugged again.

“This is something that has to be done by us krogan as much as possible. The clans must be shown the error of the old ways.” He chuckled, his voice filled with bloodthirsty menace. “And the fastest and only way for that is for a clan chief to knock sense into the hidebound idiots. Just get me the best scientists you can, and I will do the rest.”

The warlord frowned in thought for a moment.

“I will get the krogans ready and united to stand up to these Reapers, but that’s the easy part, especially if a cure for the genophage is made possible.” He huffed. “So. Any recommendations, or do you need time to think and assess candidates, Bau?”

The salarian shook his head, flashed a grin, his fingers flying over his omnitool.

“No. Have the best candidate for you already. Brilliant, capable, is already familiar with both Tuchanka and the genophage.” Bau cheerfully ignored the deep growl from Wrex as he went on. “He is somewhat eccentric and a bit of a cloaca though.”

Bau’s grin was very wide as the display changed, and showed an elderly salarian, with one cranial horn missing.

“He is currently on Omega. Want to pick him up in person, Wrex? Maybe you could meet Aria again, have a nice talk about rules and breaking them.”


	2. Chapter 14

##  Teltin facility, Pragia (20/03/2183)

The young woman closed her eyes, trying to get her breathing and wide grin under control once again - as usual, it required a rather serious effort of will; the sheer enjoyment and release she felt during fighting (especially when winning) a much more potent drug than weak knock-offs like hallex or red sand. She still could hardly believe her luck to be here, and how the staff, even including the always-nosy researchers, dealt with her. Though she knew that the constant training, tests and experiments upon her were very far from normal, she also knew that it was her decision to participate - if she refused, even after the issue in question was explained to her in details, including ramifications and possible dangers, she knew that her handlers would not push. And that was much, much better than a lot of orphaned biotic kids like her had to face. Even sheltered most of her life on Pragia, she made a point of familiarizing herself with the situation back on Earth and the major colony worlds.

Between the tests and training sessions, she sometimes pondered how different her situation would be if the staff here were similar to the cold, careless assholes that seemed prevalent in the Alliance proper; and while she would never, ever deny that her handlers were ruthless and goal-oriented people, they had at least enough common sense to ensure that she and the other subjects of the Teltin facility were personally invested and properly motivated. At the half-amused urging of Doctor Selwyn, the head of research, she seriously contemplated several times how and why she’d break out and level the facility - and after the second such occasion, she was not surprised when she could see the small changes deliberately aimed at preventing (or more importantly, preempting) such scenarios.

All told, she felt rather content with her situation. Sure, the experiments sometimes hurt like hell, there was almost always an element of danger involved in them (as attested by the deaths and permanent brain damage suffered by several trainees), but they were actually doing good, and the results they paid for in blood, pain, and nightmares were indeed helpful to biotics and ordinary Alliance citizens. And she knew that apart from the scientific purposes, they (or at least her, and a few others) were being trained as biotic operatives, specifically to counter powerhouses like asari war priestesses or turian cabalists - though why this training was conducted here, instead of the various N-level training facilities was somewhat unclear to her. Of course, when she asked about it (she may have been somewhat sheltered, but not totally ignorant), dr. Selwyn explained that this location was selected because of legal and secrecy issues, and once they had produced stable, repeatable results, the training and surgical procedures would be relocated to Earth and the Grissom Academy, mainly. For some obscure reason, that felt kind of reasonable and impressive to her, and the others who also heard that reasoning - the outcast orphans were the pioneers paving the way for the future badass N-level soldiers … and likely the youngest among them would have an actual chance of participating in and qualifying for that coveted designation.

She breathed out, pulse and adrenaline levels normalising.

“Impressive bout as usual, Jacqueline.” She could hear the pride in the doctor’s voice. “If you are not tired, we have a special guest here, who would be interested in a bit of sparring” her eyebrows raised as she heard a note of concern enter his voice, rather unusual compared to the distant amusement he usually held towards these practice bouts, “that is, if you are fine with full contact?”

“Bring it, doc.” She flashed an eager, hungry smile towards the podium. “You know how I love challenges like that.”

The doorway opened, and with narrowed eyes, she assessed the man who entered. The man moved with a slightly hesitating, careful gait that spoke of recent surgery or cyberization for his legs. His arms openly displayed the tell-tale signs of bionic reconstruction. Apart from the slender blade he carried, she could not see any obvious weapons, but that fact alone made her wary - either the guy was insanely arrogant, or very, very dangerous, facing her while still recovering from something that banged him up that bad. 

For some reason, even though he was just standing there, something in him nauseated and revolted her; an aura of uncleanness, of sheer  _ wrongness  _ that seemed to emanate from the man. Her stomach almost rebelled at that, before her will clamped down.  _ So, likely some kind of pheromon-based trick; maybe using drell biotech for all I know. Still, not giving you the satisfaction, you smug bastard. _

With a gesture, she threw a singularity towards him, her other hand wrapping a monofilament garrote in a biotic field, aiming at his knee joints. The guy shot something from a freaking palm gun that detonated her singularity before it could fully form, and the sword slashed through the monowire. He flashed a smug smirk at her, then  _ moved _ .

Jacqueline was conditioned and trained for over a decade by experts in several martial arts, including huntresses from Matriarch Trellani’s retinue. She thought she was fast, and that only the likes of elite N7 operatives might provide a challenge for her, and that she could keep up with or outright steamroll anyone else. This still-healing smugly grinning bastard almost wiped the floor with her in seconds; only her reflexes and the wall of biotic force she pulsed saved her.

The two of them were circling now, slowly, and she could feel the euphoria of a true fight flooding her system, much better and more exciting than the regular sparring sessions. Her corona ignited with blue-white power, and she hurled half dozen thin, bladed disks at him, directing their path with her biotics, throwing lift and warp fields as well as the occasional singularity to hamper his movements. Still, he was good - very, very good. The shots from that weird palm-gun hit very hard, and the guy had an unerring accuracy. Something in his armor (magnetic boots maybe, or prototype built-in biotic inhibitors perhaps) made him rather resistant to her abilities - not that there was a moment where she could fully grab him with a biotic field. That sword of his was very well suited to bat aside her disks, and she could have sworn that he cut through otherwise flawlessly aimed warp fields of hers at least twice. 

Teeth bared in a feral grin, she decided to up the ante, her disks blooming into masses of monofilament tendrils, eagerly lashing out at any sign of movement towards the man, her corona glowed fiercely as she drew in her focus, opting to use more precise fields as opposed to simple raw power.

“You’d better give up, old man.” She sent him a vicious, cocky smirk. “I’d hate to undo the work of your doctors.”

For a heartbeat, the sheer wrongness of the somehow soulless smile took her breath away.

“No, little girl. This is just starting to be fun.”

Before she could even process that statement, that nauseating, unclean aura of his somehow pulsed, blanketing the whole field with its miasma, the worming tendrils of power seeking to turn her into a snivelling, terrified little girl. Jacqueline reacted the only way she knew, the only way she felt appropriate - she charged.

++++++

On the observation podium, doctor Selwyn turned towards his guest, who followed both the duel and the data scrolling on the multitude of screens with considerable interest. 

“Your opinion, Mr. Lawson?”

The other man nodded slowly, his lips peeling back in an expression that might have been technically a smile.

“You did excellent work, doctor. Her combat and biotic abilities are even better than I hoped.” At Selwyn’s expression, his guest barely suppressed a chuckle. “Come now, Ivo. We both know that it is one thing to train someone like her to impress people who only have the mandatory service under their belt, but to stand up against a fully qualified N7?”

Selwyn nodded, a satisfied smile flickering across his face. His guest continued.

“And from what I can tell, the special modifications and conditioning seem to work as well.”

“Just as we planned, Henry.” A barely-perceivable wince, and the raised eyebrow prompted the doctor to continue. “A word of advice, though - even if we had not managed to come up with a way to break or reverse the conditioning, we should not assume that it is foolproof.”

“Point taken, doctor. And while I understand that young Jacqueline is your star pupil, how do the others compare to her?” 

Selwyn chuckled.

“Don’t worry on that account, Henry. All surviving students meet or exceed the original Phantom criteria.” Something malicious, something alien flashed deep in his gaze, his stance becoming almost insectile for a fraction of a second. “And of course we kept extensive source material for flash-cloning them, should the need arise.”

The eyes of the former Secretary of Education lost all semblance to humanity, and for a moment, something hungry and utterly alien glared out from that cold gaze.

“I will hold you to that, Selwyn.”

* * *

 

##  Orbital station, Alingon (22/03/2183)

The immense salarian glared around from behind his visor. He never liked Alingon, even though he understood perfectly why it was a near-perfect outpost for someone like the Broker; still, being a heavily cyberized mercenary, he figured it was not so hard to understand his uneasiness. And considering the orders and direction the Network has been taking recently, he was already on edge - and well, for someone like him, being on edge filled him with an almost overwhelming urge to tear someone apart.

He noted with dark satisfaction that his escort noted his mood, and kept proper distance, showed respect and subservience; he nodded to himself, confirming that at least this batch of the Broker’s private army had more common sense than the usual idiots he had to work with. He considered for a long minute the other four ships docked to the station, pondering about their occupants and the possibility of violence they were capable of.

He quickly decided that Jaroth was unlikely to cause them problems - the other salarian did not survive this long at the side of an insane maniac like Jona Sederis by picking fights without very good reason. Jaroth, first and foremost, was a survivor - and breaking the truce here and now would see him dead faster than he could blink. Not to mention that the potential benefits to the Eclipse were rather tempting, and would likely be enough to get him into the good graces of his bloodthirsty bitch of a boss.

Tarak was also unlikely to start shooting or asking stupid questions - the batarian was building up his own branch of the Blue Suns to influence that idiotic, money-grubbing Santiago, if not outright oust him. Tazzik snorted at the thought; it would be a sight to see, that’s for certain. And Tarak had more than enough to worry about, as his former commander and the few Blue Suns remnants still loyal to Massani were gunning for him. It was practically an open secret on Omega that Jedore, Massani’s loyal bitch of a lieutenant was recruiting mercs and stockpiling combat mechs to sweep Tarak’s faction off Omega. 

The third merc was, in Tazzik’s expert opinion, the most likely to start any fight, likely simply for the sake of killing. Garm of the Blood Pack brought the largest contingent of mercenaries, and well, neither krogan nor vorcha were considered stellar examples of calm reasoning. It would be fun to have a go at Garm, the salarian mused, just to teach the krogan battlemaster that he was very, very far from being the top dog. Still, even a dense, bloodthirsty idiot like him should be able to understand the benefit of the Broker’s offer. Tazzik snorted, shook his head with a rueful grin. He chastised himself for allowing his prejudice to influence his judgment. Sure, compared to the others, Garm might not be a mental giant, but he did not get to be a battlemaster and survived centuries just because his raw power - though it certainly did help. Still, underestimating his intelligence would be a bad move on Tazzik’s part.

The salarian did not really know the fourth party to attend this little gathering of sorts, but a quick check of the Broker’s database identified the ship as some type of Collector vessel. Tazzik did not really understand or care why the Broker suddenly became so accommodating towards the freaks from beyond the Omega-4 Relay, but he suspected it might have been something about the Battle of the Citadel. He knew that the Collectors usually supplied highly advanced biotech and cybernetics to those they dealt with, and from what he’d seen in the reports about that mess with Saren and his behemoth of a dreadnought, more cutting-edge tech would likely give him and the rest of the Broker’s network the ability to dominate enemies like the rogue Spectre. And, naturally, they would be able to crush basically almost everyone else, but in his opinion, that was just a very nice bonus.

Tazzik kept his hand on his sidearm as his eyes and suit sensors tracked the three mercenary leaders easily - and frowned as he realized that the oversized cockroach of a Collector did not register on his sensors at all, and even his cybernetic eye had trouble tracking it.  _ Hmm, if they are willing to share this little bit of their tech, I would definitely enjoy testing it _ . 

He went rigid with surprise for a single heartbeat - an eternity for a genhanced, heavily cyborgized salarian like him. He did not expect that both Tarak and Jaroth would defer to Garm, of all people - yet all the signs were there, in their posture, gestures, a host of other, minuscule, barely-perceptible signals. Well, that was just fine with him - after all, convincing two parties that a deal was nice and beneficial was much easier than convincing four. 

He stepped down from the ramp of his ship, crossed to the mercs, and beckoned the Collector closer. For a moment, he thought about spinning a nice, stirring speech about benefits and cooperation, and all that trite-but-true bullshit, then he spoke.

“All right, good to know that you three had enough sense to accept the Broker’s invite.”

“Get to the point, Tazzik. Even you should not bullshit around so much.” Garm’s voice was a deep, menacing growl. The salarian flashed a hungry grin at him, then continued.

“Fine with me. The Collectors approached the Broker to negotiate a deal with you, in exchange for tech from them and information from the Network.” His smile widened as he took in all three mercs, looking for signs of surprise, even under the suddenly-rigid control the trio exhibited. “Don’t worry, you’ll like the proposition. I can guarantee that.”

“Suppose you are honest,” Tarak flashed his mandibles in a vicious grin. “Well, as honest as a salarian working for the Broker can get anyway - why are you the one talking, and not the bug?” He scowled at the Collector. “Though I guess without a mouth they can’t really speak, can they now.”

“ **I CAN SPEAK WELL ENOUGH, BATARIAN** .” The sound was a basso rumbling of a thousand insectile wings beating in harmony, its sheer power and wrongness setting the four battle-hardened instantly on edge.

“Then out with it, bug - what do you want from us?” The krogan’s growl was laced with the promise of barely-restrained violence.

“ **NOTHING YOU WOULD NOT HAVE DONE ANYWAY.** ” The Collector’s four eyes shone with a baleful, merciless yellow eye, its body seemingly towering above them, the skin turning black and cracked, as a more mechanical undertone washed over the insectile buzzing. “ **WE WILL ASSIST YOU IN TAKING OVER OMEGA - AND IN RETURN, YOU WILL STRIKE AT A SHORT LIST OF ALLIANCE AND COUNCIL TARGETS WE WILL PROVIDE.** ”

The Collector raised a hand wreathed in dark biotic aura to stop the protest Jaroth was about to make.

“ **THE SHADOW BROKER WILL PROVIDE INTEL FOR YOU. WE WILL PROVIDE TECH AND OTHER TOOLS. YOU ONLY NEED TO STRIKE WITH OVERWHELMING FORCE.** ”

The three leaders shared a glance, communicating as only long-time enemies and allies can, before Garm turned towards the Collector and Tazzik.

“Very well, we will do it - if the stuff you two are providing is good enough.” He took a menacing step forward, his biotics sparking with cold blue-white light. “But better show us the tech and intel first, as well as the list of targets.”

The Collector turned towards Tazzik.

“ **HANDLE THE REST, SALARIAN. THE RELEVANT INFORMATION HAS BEEN FORWARDED TO THE BROKER, AND YOU ARE AUTHORIZED FOR ACCESSING IT** .” The being shot a glare at the foursome, before he turned to leave. “ **THIS EXCHANGE IS OVER.** ”

* * *

 

##  Flux, Citadel (02/04/2183)

The music was rather mellow, more quiet and relaxing than what Liara would have expected from Flux, given her past experiences with the club. Still, she considered that maybe the specific occasion might have something to do with it - after all, this was to be the unofficial dissolution of the  _ Normandy  _ crew, as they went on their separate paths. She sipped her drink, frowning as she considered her own chosen path once again, as she had many times in the past two weeks, ever since Admiral Hackett and Shepard approached her with the idea. She still could not fully believe they’d want her for that kind of role, but she could not deny the sheer intellectual thrill of the job, and that she would certainly feel useful, at least doing something to atone for her mother’s insanity as well as to prepare for the coming Reaper invasion. And, as a treacherous small voice whispered in the back of her mind, it would give her a reason to keep in contact with a certain operative… Blushing, she downed her drink, barely managed to avoid choking as the potent alcohol burned its way down, pleasantly warming her.

Her companions were also quietly nursing their drinks, the whole team quieter, much more introspective than usual - even Wrex. A quick glance towards the other tables confirmed that most of the crewmembers were also content to sit back and drink, the dance floor was, for now, quiet and empty; though that might have been partially because Shepard rented the whole Flux for the evening. 

“So, what’s with all the doom and gloom, Shepard?” The humor was unmistakable in the flanging turian voice. “Just because you’ll be deprived of such a talented and good-looking sniper is no reason for drowning yourself in ryncol.” Before the Spectre could reply, the turian went on, a certain glint in his eyes. “Besides, at the rate you are going, you’ll make Liara jealous, and that will end badly.”

Liara sputtered, and even Shepard coughed as he glared daggers at the turian, before nodding towards Tali, who drove an elbow into Garrus’ side.

“Shut up, you bosh’tet.” Her eyes narrowed behind the faceplate. “Unless you are projecting your own feelings, nursing that crush of yours for the human Spectre who always takes you to fun places for all kinds of action...”

For a brief moment, there was silence, all eyes on the young quarian, as she shrugged self-consciously; then Wrex snorted, the sound transforming into a deep, rumbling laugh, and that was the cue for the others to let loose, and the mood lightened. 

“So, Shepard” Wrex rumbled “any particular reason why you are throwing this little shindig? It’s not like we’ll be completely out of touch.”

“It’s not that, Wrex. Chalk it up to my stupid paranoia - just wanted to go through our rather haphazard conspiracy in a fitting place.” The Spectre flashed a wry grin at them, sipped his drink, and went on. “I know we can technically easily contact each other, unless one of us has to go into deep cover - but I want to be sure that everyone knows his or her task for the foreseeable future.” His voice hardened, took on a bleak edge. “I have no idea how much time we have before the Reapers, but we’d better start preparations as soon as possible. As long as we can’t move openly, we are bereft of a lot of resources and by the time the populace and most of the governments can be made to see reason, it might be too late.”

The operative sipped again from his drink, glowered at some unseen point, before he went on.

“Sure, the Council and especially the other Spectres are moving in support, but even so, our options are limited, and there is much to do. So, let’s do one more check, before we get really drunk and ship out.”

Shepard held up a finger, his omnitool running a scan, then turned towards Tali, whose headshake followed a minute later as her search came up negative.

“Good, apparently we are not bugged, and the countermeasures are working. Still, let’s keep it brief.”

The operative nodded towards Wrex, and the krogan shrugged, downed his ryncol, then spoke.

“Travel arrangements for Tuchanka have been made; I’ll pick up that salarian on Omega on my way.” The old warlord grinned. “Maybe I’ll drop by Aria for a quick visit, for old times’ sake. Anyway, if the doctor is half as good as his dossier suggests, we do have a real chance of getting rid of the genophage, at least to an extent. The research will take time, likely at least a few years, but that’s unavoidable. Also, in the meantime I can focus on knocking the stupid from the other clans, see if I can raise a more unified alliance of krogan. That way, even if Solus can’t finish the cure before the Reapers get here, we’ll have an army ready for them.”

Shepard nodded, and Garrus spoke up.

“I am not going to re-enlist for Spectre candidacy; the Hierarchy already has a damn good Spectre in Nihlus, and there’s not much I could do that he can’t; apart from sniping and looking good.” Tali snorted, and elbowed Garrus once more, as the turian went on. “I’ll speak with my father, see if he’s open to a few suggestions about improving comm lines, weaponry, establishing depots, and worst-case plans. And when I’m not on Palaven to listen to his tirades, I’ll work with Sparatus and Pallin to shake up C-Sec a bit. We are not going to allow anyone to repeat the kind of stunt Saren and Benezia orchestrated.” His mandibles flared in a predatory grin. “And besides, the Citadel seems to have some significance for Reapers and their allies; if they try anything else, I think it’s likely it’ll happen around here. Plus, somebody has to keep an eye on the Council as well.”

After a brief laughter, Tali continued.

“After I’m done with certain necessary rites” her eyes narrowed on Wrex, who simply smirked, saluting her with his drink, “I’ll go back to the Migrant Fleet, to see if I can convince my father and the rest of the Admiralty Board that we need to improve on our cyberwarfare and anti-mech capabilities. Admiral Daro’Xen will be ecstatic about that. Also, we’ll have to devote a part of our forces to locating a suitable planet for colonization, though the Alliance promised help in that. If we can settle at least our civilians, we can free up ships for either anti-geth or anti-Reaper operations. Also, at Liara’s suggestion, I plan to ask for a small strike force, and visit some old quarian colonies close to the galactic rim, see if the old databases and science outposts are still there.”

There were nods around the table, then Liara took over.

“I’ve decided to take the offer of Admiral Hackett and Shepard, so I’ll be moving to Illium, and open up a new information broker agency. That gives us a rather good cover for infogathering and small-scale expeditions in the galactic north. The new agency will also be aiming to become sizable and influential enough for the Shadow Broker to consider employing us as an external asset, giving us some access and visibility to its network.” She raised a hand to stop questions. “I’m still considering how exactly we could do that, but Shepard and I have some vague ideas. Unfortunately, this will take time. At any rate, being an infobroker will also allow me to keep a closer eye on archeotech findings and possible excavations.”

“Why aren’t you going to Ilos, Liara?” The puzzlement was quite clear in Tali’s voice. “I’d have thought you’d want to take part in the excavations there personally. Keelah, with your expertise and clout, you could easily be leading it!”

The asari’s smile was wistful as she nodded.

“True, and that’s what I would love to do. But, as someone” her gaze shifted at Shepard “pointed out, we are somewhat pressed for time, and that the Spectre corps would not mind having a reliable, independent intelligence agency other than the Shadow Broker available. Besides, it is not much different from archeological research...”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that’s the main reason for you accepting that offer, T’Soni.” Garrus’ voice was a slow drawl, his smirk infuriatingly wide, even as the blushing Liara glared at him. Shepard cleared his throat, glared at the turian, and spoke when all eyes turned towards him - some curious, some mischievous, some both.

“For the time being, Liara will come along on the Normandy, we’ll drop her off at Ilium once we are finished with the first part of the recon mission, so in about two-three weeks.” The Spectre studiously ignored the chuckling Garrus and Wrex, but nodded appreciatively towards Tali, who dug an elbow into the turian’s side. “By that time, we will have some additional assets available for Liara, both for analysis and security.” He smirked at the asari, before continuing. “I seem to remember that you were rather impressed by a certain colleague of mine, hopefully this project will be less bloody than the excavation on Therum.”

Liara nodded, her gaze mirroring the swirling, confusing mix of gratitude, revulsion, fear, and awe that she felt, when she realized just who Shepard was likely talking about. Sure, the man was very competent, but his sheer presence made her skin crawl. The operative went on.

“One more thing. I will provide each of you with some encryption codes and security tokens. They are to be used if you are contacted by people from Project Aurora. The identification will be keyed to each of you, and I would not advise trying to mess with them.” His eyes rested briefly on Tali, then Liara and Garrus. “I mean it. No playing around, or it will get your brains fried.” Wrex chuckled darkly, and shook his head as the operative looked at him. Shepard continued. “Said Project is the SA’s new tool against xenoarcheological threats, like Sovereign. We will be working with them, and at some point, I plan to bring in the Spectres as well - or at least those I trust, like Nihlus, Bau, or Vasir.”

The Spectre looked around once again, checked his omnitool, shared a glance with Tali.

“Any questions?” At the headshakes, the human nodded. “All right, then enjoy yourself. The Normandy leaves at 1400 tomorrow.”

For a few moments, there was silence, then Wrex chuckled, downed his ryncol.

“Go on kids, party. Who knows, we just might see Shepard actually grow a pair, and step onto the dance floor - or maybe he’ll ask T’Soni to teach him.”

Liara fought off the urge to throttle the old krogan while trying to keep herself from spontaneously combusting. The others broke out in chuckles, and of course somebody started the betting pool - and things went from there.


	3. Chapter 15

##  Amada system, Omega Nebula (15/04/2183)

“Disengaging FTL drives. Emission sinks active. Board is green, we are running silent.” Joker’s voice was bored as the  _ Normandy  _ dropped back into realspace, the routine and tedium of the supposed patrol already making flying a pain. He maneuvered the frigate on a course that would bring them within sensor range of both Eingana and Alchera, to see if the latest scrap of intel ONI forwarded to them had any basis in reality.

“We’re wasting our time. Four days searching up and down this sector, and no sign of  _ any _ activity - neither geth, nor smugglers or mercenaries.” Pressly’s voice was tense, on edge - and that twigged something in the pilot’s mind. The XO was usually excessively anal about following orders and procedure to the letter; if he was willing to voice his feelings and objections to a directive from ONI, he must have been really ticked off. And anything that ticked off the XO was more than enough to set Joker on edge. His fingers danced over his haptics, readying the ship for combat maneuvering.

“Three ships did go missing here in the past two weeks, XO. Something must have happened to them.” The edge in his voice was surprising to himself as well.

“My money’s on the Blood Pack. They became orders of magnitude much more active in the last month or so - and they were always a pain in the ass in these parts anyway.”

Joker opened his mouth to reply, as Ensign Draven spoke up from Ops Alley, confusion and something else in her voice.

“Picking up something on the long-range scanner. Unidentified vessel. Size and drive emissions suggest a cruiser, or even larger displacement.” With a flick of her hand, she sent the sensor data to Joker’s screen, and the pilot immediately started up the ID registry.

“Hm, its drive doesn’t match any known signatures.”

“Cruiser is changing course.” Talitha’s voice dripped with disbelief, and just a hint of worry. “Coming on intercept trajectory.”

“Can’t be. Stealth systems are engaged. No way they could sense us...” Pressly’s voice was full of disbelief, but his hands already moved on his console, priming weapons systems, plotting possible avoidance courses.

“It’s not geth, that’s for sure...” Joker mused for a second, his eyes going wide as his sensors warned him of the energy spike blooming on the unknown vessel. “Brace for evasive maneuvers!”

The darkness of the void flared with a baleful yellow glare as a thick beam of incandescent light reached for the  _ Normandy _ , as Joker juked and jinked the frigate, trying to dance away, to confuse the targeting of the enemy vessel. 

“I’m not sure how long I can keep evading!” Joker yelled into his mic, as he almost tore the frigate in half with an insane turn that still barely managed to avoid the next incoming shot. “Pressly, Adams, we need FTL before...”

The  _ Normandy  _ shook and Joker cursed as the yellow beam tore into the wing of the frigate, the vessel shuddering, its speed dropping as the right-external engine was shorn from the ship. The hit was enough to send all crew members not yet strapped in staggering. Pressly overbalanced, hit his head on the console, and slid down to the floor, unconscious and bleeding. Tabitha unstrapped herself to check on the XO, slapped a medigel patch on his temple, before another hit sent her reeling.

“Kinetic barriers down!” Joker’s hands flew frantically over his console. This could not be happening - there was only one enemy he might believe capable of hitting his ship like this, and the drive signature did not match Sovereign’s.

“Distress signal launched.” Shepard’s voice was calm, cool - and carried the typical slight distortion of a hardsuit’s comm unit. The pilot did not know what the Spectre and Liara were up to in the operative’s cabin (ok, if he was honest, he did have some  _ ideas _ ), but damn, getting into armor barely a minute after the attack, that must have been some record.

Before Joker or anyone could reply, the  _ Normandy  _ howled with the stress of tearing metal, as the incandescent yellow beam carved into the hull of the frigate. Secondary explosions filled the interior of the ship with noise, flames, and smoke, along with the screams of the injured and the cloying scent of sizzling meat. 

“Weapons offline!” Joker barely had enough time to cry out as he wrenched the dying vessel into another maneuver, barely avoiding a direct hit to the drive core. His nostrils flared, and he spared a quick glance behind himself. “Fire in the Ops Alley!”

With a quick gesture, he activated the internal barrier of the cockpit, ensuring that the flames would not reach him, and that he could do his job without distraction. Another blast of light tore into the frigate, punching a hole straight through the CIC, and for a brief moment he closed his eyes, hoping that nobody was sucked out into the void before the emergency barrier came online. His console lit up with a new warning, and he screamed into his comm.

“Another energy spike, brace for...”

The  _ Normandy _ thrashed like a wounded animal as the unidentified cruiser blanketed the area with some kind of energy field, that did not seem to be doing much of anything - or so Joker hoped for a brief second, before Adams roared into the comm.

“The core is going critical! Containment dropping, it’s awakening!”

“Adams, everyone still alive - get to the escape pods, abandon ship.” Shepard’s tone brooked no dissent, and the pilot could not suppress a shiver at the glacial calm radiating from it. “The Alliance should be here to pick you up shortly.”

As the ship shook from impacts, the hull groaning and screaming from the stress Joker’s evasive maneuvering put on it, the pilot could see and feel the escape pods launching - as well as the rapidly closing moment of the drive core awakening. He started as a faint, whistling noise made itself know, just at the edge of his hearing; a distant chorus of horrors howling an ululating cry of gleeful madness and vengeance. His mouth went dry, his hands shook - and though he would never admit it, that shake allowed him to spin the  _ Normandy  _ away from another hit. Still, barely seconds later, an explosion bloomed out in the void, and Joker swore.

“Shepard, the bastards are going after the lifepods! We won’t last until reinforcements are here!”

The Spectre’s voice was still calm, though there was an underlying strain and some gurgling quality to it, as if he was speaking from underwater.

“Just get off the ship and trust me; I’ll take care of this in a minute.”

Another hit sent the frigate reeling, debris, flames, and atmosphere trailing in its wake. Joker still struggled to maneuver, to keep the dying ship between the enemy and the lifepods - then turned his head as steps sounded, and he came face to face with Liara, the asari’s face a tear-streaked mask of soot, her voice a hoarse croak even through the hardsuit’s comm.

“Come on Joker, everyone else’s gone already!”

Before the pilot could answer or react, a malevolent, gloating howl sounded from somewhere deep in the corpse of the frigate, the whistling, loathsome noise searing the words  _ tekeli-li _ deep into their minds. For a brief heartbeat, both Joker and Liara saw the pulsing, blue drive core swallowed by something blacker than the void, before the tide of darkness, eyes and teeth threatened to drown them body and soul - then the pilot screamed, a fair number of his bones snapping as Liara’s biotics wrapped around him, and yanked Joker to the asari’s side as she dove into the escape pod, her fist slamming down to launch them off the ship.

“Shepard, we are leaving!”

The disintegrating  _ Normandy  _ was smothered in a blanket of eye-searing, malevolent darkness, snuffing out fire, light, life and souls alike; the vast, craggy cruiser looming in the distance, its sheer bulk making it visible even with naked eyes as the behemoth turned towards them for another pass, yellow glare pooling in the throat of its main cannon. Before it could form the deadly spear of coherent light, the corpse of the frigate pulsed as molten-gold lines of power seared an arcane symbol into being, the howling darkness fraying, evaporating from the golden glare.

Joker saw Liara’s eyes as she looked back towards the receding husk of the ship, saw her lips move beneath the faceplate of the helmet - and saw the cruel yellow light lance out from the cruiser once more, bearing straight down the remains of their ship … only to be stopped as a glittering, coruscating lattice of crystalline power snapped into being, the vast beam ever-diminishing in the non-euclidean depths of the labyrinthine shield. A few seconds later, another beam slammed into the gossamer-thin defense, the higher dimensions cracking, bleeding as the Guard started to buckle under the sheer power of the assault. Both Joker and Liara knew that the third shot would destroy the shield, then the unknown enemy would be free to mop up the few survivors of the  _ Normandy _ .

As the aegis died with a silent explosion of golden power, Joker could not stop a disbelieving laughter when a sensor reading flashed on the escape pod’s screen - and with the pseudomotion of an FTL jump, an immense bulk materialized between the wreck of the  _ Normandy  _ and the alien ship, and a coldly furious whisper rasped into the open comm channels.

“Get away from my son, you bastards.”

++++++

Aboard the  _ SSV Orizaba _ , a red-haired woman sat ramrod-straight in her command chair, emerald eyes glaring at the tactical plot as Hannah Shepard bared her teeth in a feral smile, the red lighting of combat readiness transforming her expression to a berserker’s mad glee. A heartbeat later, the targeting system flashed green, and with a shudder felt across the whole vessel, the SA dreadnought opened fire - its main gun spitting out a trio of shots in a rapid burst as thirty torpedoes raced from its tubes towards the enemy cruiser.

The craggy bulk of the unknown ship turned ponderously to bring its main gun to bear while ECM systems almost on par with Sovereign’s howled with electronic noise, garbage data, viral and n-dimensional attacks as they sought to bring down the human vessel’s defenses. From the salvo of thirty torpedoes (two-thirds of which were penaids and ECM drones anyway), only a single one managed to get past the jamming.

Greyish unlight spread over the rocky surface of the enemy ship, giggling tentacles of light and malice tore into the vessel in a silently screaming vortex of cancerous destruction, sending it reeling off-course.

Aboard the  _ Orizaba _ , Hannah smiled a predator’s hungry grin, as her fingers danced on her console, sending her ship into a micro-FTL jump, dropping into knife-fight range - and along the dreadnought’s side, dozens of GARDIAN lasers flashed with baleful light, carving deep furrows into the unknown assailant of her son’s ship, explosions blossoming in the wake of the salvo.

A scant second later, Hannah had to bite her lips to suppress a scream of frustrated rage as the alien vessel vanished into FTL. Swallowing thoughts of revenge, she directed her crew to begin SAR, desperately looking for a specific hardsuit transponder broadcasting on N-level signifiers.

An hour later, she was able to look at her son once again - or rather, the wrecked, wasted shell of what was an N7 operative not much earlier. The stress of holding a Guard capable of dissipating a dreadnought-caliber weapon more than once, on top of dealing with an unleashed and angry shoggoth almost destroyed him. The preliminary medical report prior to stasis listed extensive cerebral damage, ruptured internal organs, broken bones, severe burns - and those were just the most obvious ones.

She could only hope that the SA Medical Corps, or rather, Jack’s pet genius was as accomplished at repairing damaged humans as the shadowy bastard claimed.

* * *

 

##  Arcturus Station, Arcturus Stream (16/04/2183)

General Oleg Petrovsky was not having a good day. Admittedly, he did not consider most of his workdays as good - after all, it took him away from the research work and studies he would have preferred, but he supposed the accusation of having an overdeveloped sense of duty (and ego) was somewhat correct. Thus, he could ultimately only blame himself for being stuck in his office at Arcturus, instead of being back on Earth - perhaps if he had not refused the University’s offer, he’d be studying ancient secrets in Kathmandu. As things stood, the possibility of doing such research in person was rather distant, and with a sigh, he refocused on his guest, assessing the former cabinet member. He had not exactly known what his reason for visiting was, but he made a few educated guesses. After all, the two of them were part of the same informal organization, pursued the same ultimate goal with all their not-inconsiderable skills and resources.

Still, despite the common aims and mindset, he was somewhat leery of this particular guest, and his mind raced as he considered the specific request put forth by the man. Admittedly, it was not completely unusual, and his subordinates had done such work in the past as well; sometimes at the exasperation of Director Bergman and her people at AIS. Even so, the magnitude and implications of his guest’s request made him cautious. His train of thought derailed as his comm unit flashed with an incoming message that bypassed his yeoman, and with a raised eyebrow, he moved to accept the call while motioning his guest to move back, outside the range of the audiovisual pickup - and for a fraction of a second, he considered engaging the privacy field of his desk before deciding against it. If he could not even trust his guest and the others of their cabal, he might as well have put a gun to his head and be done with it.

As the call came through, he could not stop the surprised eyebrow raise.

“Fleet Master, what can I do for you?” 

“Is the line secure, General?” Petrovsky’s eyes narrowed at the words and the tightly controlled tone of his superior, as he checked the encryption of the comm channel and the privacy settings of his office before he nodded. “I’m sending you a CRITIC report I just received from the  _ Orizaba _ ; its basics will likely be in the news rather sooner than I’d prefer. Read it before we go on.”

An indicator flashed, signalling an incoming data packet, and Petrovsky accepted it, then speed-read its contents; as he felt his thoughts racings, a cold feeling of fury and worry threatening to overwhelm his composure. He raised his head, locking eyes with Fleet Master Sheridan, noticing the volcanic fury behind the cracking wall of iron will.

“I want answers, General.” 

“With all due respect, why me, sir? Why not ONI? Or the AIS?” 

“Apparently, you have been lax, General; too many conspiring in the dark while running your little conspiracy with your illusive friends.” 

For a moment, Petrovsky stiffened, and he could perceive the surprise from his guest as well. The Fleet Master, unaware or more likely, uncaring, went on.

“I am quite well aware of your shady little cabal, and the only reason you have not yet been dealt with is that our goals align, and none of you have moved against Humanity in any way whatsoever.” Sheridan flashed a shark-like grin, and continued. “Besides, there are times when clandestine efforts like yours are required for survival, and we are both aware that such times are coming - or more precisely, have already began. And the SA will need good, loyal hounds before all is said and done.”

“Don’t beat around the bush, sir. Why me? Why the Public Security Section?”

The eyes of the Fleet Master blazed with a cold blue light as he glared at Petrovsky.

“Because currently yours is the only relevant agency I would be able to trust. Who else, Oleg? The ONI? They dropped the ball on this; and have absolutely no idea what or who the attacker was - and even then, who is to know that they have not deliberately fed us false data to get the  _ Normandy  _ into position. The AIS? Apparently you have not heard about the attempt at Helena’s life. Clearly, they or elements close to them have been compromised.”

Petrovsky could not suppress a shiver at that little tidbit - he was unaware of it, but considering the effort required to even mount such an attempt, he did not wonder why the AIS and the SA went to likely extreme lengths in suppressing that information.

“What about Erwin’s department?”

The Fleet Master glared at him disdainfully.

“I would not trust Ungern-Sternberg as far as I could throw him.” Sheridan raised a hand, forestalling the question. “Sure, he does seem and act supportive, but I don’t believe for a second that he does not have a hidden agenda - and considering his position and department, I’m not sure I should enjoy that support.” A brief pause, before the Fleet Master shook his head and went on. “Anyway, they too seem to have dropped the ball on this. After all, there was no forewarning, no prognostication, no post-battle identification of the unknown enemy - and considering the assets we placed at his disposal, that silence is more than enough to make me suspicious.”

“You do realize that esoteric methods like those of his department were never considered to be accurate or reliable?” A moment of consideration, then he amended. “Well, not before his predecessor began working closely with Kathmandu. Ever since, they did become somewhat more stable.”

The glare he received as an answer was almost potent enough to melt bulkheads across the screen.

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Oleg. I can see why you got so far.” A blink, and Sheridan continued. “The fact that Erwin’s department is completely silent, despite the rather blatant measures Shepard was forced to take is what makes me suspicious - especially when coupled with the fact that both Yildirim and Pieterzoon have vanished.”

Cold dread slithered down Petrovsky’s spine.

“You don’t think Erwin pulled something that insane, right?” The brief contemplative silence was telling enough, but then the Fleet Master slowly shook his head.

“I don’t think he had a hand in that - but I’m almost certain he is taking advantage of their disappearance.” His features hardened. “We are getting sidetracked, anyway.”

Petrovsky nodded, marshalling his thoughts before summarizing for his superior.

“Essentially, you want me to conduct an investigation into who was responsible for leaking information that lead to the destruction of the  _ Normandy _ , and the death of our first Spectre - and you want me to do this quietly.” Sheridan nodded, and Petrovsky shook his head with a rueful smile. “You do realize that this will cause quite a number of problems within the SA, and that the cabinet will view the whole thing as a pointless turf war between intelligence and security agencies?” Again, a nod. “And that’s not even mentioning the fact that it will pit us against the Shadow Broker in all likelihood.”

Petrovsky could not suppress a short chuckle as he saw the Fleet Master’s expression.

“Come now William, who else would be the primary culprit for this? Considering what we know, it is highly likely that some yet-unknown party, possibly remnants from Saren and Benezia’s forces or cultists of Sovereign paid for the information and to conduct the attack. And considering ONI’s impotence, who else could arrange for them to be this impotent, either via sabotage or old-fashioned corruption?” He raised a hand as the Fleet Master opened his mouth. “Yes, technically the STG and the Spectres both would have the resources and ability to pull this off - but if they had access to weaponry like the attacker did, we would have known. Perhaps you did not notice, but based on the sensor data from the  _ Orizaba _ , it is markedly similar to the main weapon that  _ Sovereign  _ used.”

With a mirthless grin, Petrovsky continued.

“We do have a longer-term project in the works, which was planned to start after the  _ Normandy  _ finished its patrol - the establishment of a new information brokering agency on Ilium. I strongly suspect the figurehead we had in mind for that will now have extra incentive to pursue the original course. Alas, as with all endeavours of this nature, it will take time, especially if I’m right and we are indeed up against the Shadow Broker.”

The general leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers as he met the glare of the Fleet Master.

“Will that be satisfactory, sir? Or would you require something quicker that can be used in the immediate future for … internal political purposes?”

The sheer malevolence and wrath from the glare Sheridan leveled at him was surprising, but Petrovsky managed to keep his calm. The Fleet Master’s voice was even, measured - yet he could clearly hear the underlying fury.

“Do not play games with me, Oleg, or I will personally tear your lungs out. Our most advanced vessel was destroyed practically effortlessly by an unknown foe. Our first Spectre is listed as KIA a scant few weeks after his investiture. Our intelligence agencies have been infiltrated, misdirected or suborned. There are signs pointing at external forces intent on destabilizing the SA by pulling the exact same stunts you are testing me with - and all this when we do have strong indication that  _ Sovereign _ ’s peers will be coming to finish the job he started.” The glare intensified, the voice became a deceptively calm, friendly whisper. “While I do think I would do a much better job than Speer and his cronies, you would do well to remember that I am at least as loyal to Humanity than you and your Cerberus friends. If not more so. And to waste time, effort, and resources on a coup on the verge of a potentially galactic-wide crisis is insane.”

Silence settled between the two, before Petrovsky nodded decisively, and Sheridan’s glare let up, as the Fleet Master spoke.

“One more thing, Oleg. Let your associates know that while they got results in this case, in the future such creative reassignments of naval assets are not appreciated - at least not without consulting me; at least after the fact, should time be a critical factor.” He flashed a wry grin. “And now I have to find a way to simultaneously upbraid Hannah for the stunt, and commending her on a job well done.”

The screen winked out, and Petrovsky turned his chair back towards his visitor, and perked an eyebrow.

“Thank you for the trust, General. It was certainly an enlightening conversation.” The sharply-dressed man leaned forward, his eyes alight with fierce hunger for something. ”So, in the light of the Fleet Master’s orders, will you be able to assist us, General?”

Petrovsky contemplated again for a minute, analyzing and discarding plans, possible scenarios, dangers to the SA the plan proposed by his guest might represent, evaluated his instinctive wariness of this man. He could not put his finger on it, but something in his guest set off his internal alarms - but then again, he supposed that as a former politician and ruthless entrepreneur, the man was indeed dangerous enough for just that. And at any rate, he could easily assign some people to discreetly keep an eye on him, just in case his dossier was an extremely good fabrication. Petrovsky looked up, and nodded. 

“Yes, Mr. Lawson, I will provide personnel and resources for the military buildup of Cerberus forces.”

* * *

 

##  Thorne system, Hawking Eta cluster (20/04/2183)

As their vessel dropped from FTL at the system’s edge, Mahinda Chandana could barely contain his vicious satisfaction. After years of being sidelined, being denied the the accolades and fame that were justly his for his accomplishments and publications in both astronomy and xenoarcheology, this was his hour of triumph. Even better, that maniac Garneau was still back on the Citadel, following up on that mysterious Leviathan of his, so the lion’s share of the credit would fall on Chandana. After all, he did come up with the program that, in coordination with those hidebound idiots at PROJECT HARUSPEX, led them finally here. And no, he adamantly refused to consider that if not for DEEP EYES catching some very faint echoes off a signal that originated from somewhere in the galactic rim, his own vaunted calculations may have borne fruit only years later - if at all.

He snorted at the memory of explaining his theories and astronomical models to those fossils so enamored of their technological monstrosity - as if they did not simply lift their whole concept straight from the previous millennium! They considered themselves so high and mighty, building off the “wisdom” (or madness) of Yi, of Ikari, of Akagi - all the while fawning over the safe protocols and methods propagated from Kathmandu. They had no inkling of how such esoteric methods worked, they dabbled simply with things that were very much beyond the understanding - even discounting the fact that they did not have the knowledge and wisdom of countless aeons to draw upon.

At least they fell in line rather quickly, no doubt helped by the presence of his unwanted ONI minder - and as so often lately, he could barely suppress the resentment and anger boiling up whenever somebody mentioned her. Sure, she did seem to act with deference and politeness, but the mere fact that she was there was insulting. His loyalty to the SA was never in question, and he was capable of conducting his on-site research quite well on his own. Chandana supposed it was once again either politicking, or the clandestine shenanigans so prevalent in such situations ever since the ascendance of the University of Kathmandu.

What galled him even more is that even with his background, despite having backing from and the support of numerous high-profile individuals, he still could not get advance warning of getting an observer - nevermind ditching the woman. And the meeting with that pompous old bastard of an admiral, where he was forced to bow, scrape, and act polite around uniformed thugs who could barely grasp the implications of his work … well, that event was certainly galling, to put it very mildly. Luckily, he did manage to keep control over himself, mostly.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, centered himself. Dwelling on past slights, ultimately petty grievances would not do, not in his hour of vindication. The crewmembers did their jobs silently, the ship’s sensors sweeping over the vast, empty void, looking for that proverbial needle in the haystack, yet Chandana could feel their confidence in their (or rather, his) calculations. The target of the weapon that created the Great Rift would be here, somewhere. Sure, they may have to spend several days searching in the asteroid field, but if their luck holds, they might find the object somewhere around Mnemosyne. And lately, Chandana did put a rather lot of faith in such luck. To be fair, he supposed it would be hard not to - after Vancouver, he got ample evidence that he and his peers were on the right track. 

These so-called Reapers (and he could not fully suppress a short chuckle at the pomposity of the name) were but a means for an end; their peculiar, highly advanced science would soon serve Mankind, hastening their journey towards ascension. With an effort of will, Chandana brought himself back into the present, shedding visions of future glories - after all, they did have to defeat the Reapers in order to make use of them. And precisely that was why he was here - why he had to be here. To ensure that these crucial steps would not lead Humanity astray, but follow the envisioned path towards the Silver Key, and the Gate beyond.

A screen flashed at the edge of his vision, as the sensors found a massive construct orbiting the gas giant of Mnemosyne. With an excited grin, he commanded the ship forward, and a scant hour later, he could feast his eyes on the visuals transmitted by the drones sent to perform a quick reconnaissance.

The ship was massive, a two-kilometer-long husk of hypertech alloy. Though it was still generating a measure of power, as evidenced by the faint mass effect field that prevented its orbit from deteriorating, and tumbling into the gravity well of Mnemosyne, the ship has clearly seen better days. Its hull was torn and pitted where internal explosions and external impacts had marred the once-pristine blackness of the metal. The sheer menacing invincibility exuded by Sovereign was absent, and for a brief heartbeat, Chandana almost felt pity towards the once-majestic piece of engineering (or evolution?) laid low by some primordial enemy. 

Mahinda Chandana steeled his mind, focusing on the arduous task of determining on how active the Reaper was (and thus, how potentially dangerous) - and planning on what exactly would be needed to set up an on-site research facility, who could be relied upon to keep the immense discovery secret while still being able to contribute. After all, it would not do if the other races benefitted from the knowledge that the Reaper’s corpse represented - or at least not before Humanity was sure to squeeze out all of its secrets.

During the long hours of work, he was not aware of his hands occasionally straying towards the small crystalline trinket given to him in Vancouver. Nor did he realize the profound effect the derelict vessel had on the ONI agent. But most importantly, he was completely unaware of the innocuous data packet that was sent alongside their usual status report, and which caused Henry Lawson to smile triumphantly, when the Illusive Man showed him the information. Events were proceeding quite well, all things considered. It would not be long now.

* * *

 

##  Location: unknown (date: unknown)

Complying with the politely worded yet very firm instructions of their traveling companions, they had refrained from accessing the extranet without express permission. Some of them found the restraint a plaguing hindrance, but the majority acknowledged it as a valid means of keeping their presence and task hidden - or at least as hidden as possible, given the circumstances. For whatever reason, the ship’s databanks were put at their disposal with casual indifference; the opinion was that it represented a measure of trust while simultaneously serving as a test as well. Nevertheless, even after meticulous preparations for their current task, there was always room for improvement, for broadening their knowledge - thus, they delved deep into the surprisingly extensive archives of the ship, hoping that an in-depth analysis (and comparison with their own previous data as well as the data they collected about the other Council races) would yield results about the two who shared their vessel with them.

Of course, they did not strictly limit themselves to studying the digital records; they paid close attention to the two persons as well, examining their habits, behavior, interactions, trying to find out the reason for their actions and the inexplicable phenomena that seemed rather pervasive in their vicinity.

So far, the research was rather … inconclusive. While they did have advanced sensory equipment at their disposal that enabled quite detailed and extensive scanning of biological lifeforms, in order to better gauge their reactions, so they could formulate appropriate responses conducive to nonviolent encounters. While not specifically tailored to be used on humans, they did have sizable amounts of information on the species; fitting, considering their original objective. In light of this, the results gotten from the two humans were … deemed inconclusive, after a lengthy period of re-checking, calibrating, and re-testing the scanning systems. After all, the readings either did not make sense, even allowing for large-scale individual deviances in life expectancy among humans - or they were being jammed or manipulated. That was, of course, a distinct possibility, especially factoring in the events that occurred when they boarded, that neither chronometers nor location beacons seemed to work reliably; yet their pilot always seemed to know which course to take, even without relying on the established navigational beacons and protocols - or employing the navicomp for calculating the jumps. He did, however, repeatedly consult a small, intricate mechanism that while called a compass, was obviously not one, as it would not enable navigating in the void. Presumably, it was some kind of archeotech device, likely able to tap into a higher dimensional energy matrix, and the pilot was following whatever directions he could infer from that after consulting an old, worn notebook (itself likely a remnant of a xenoarcheological expedition).

Before they could once again derail the discussion from its current main topic, several of them, working in concert, dragged the debate back on track. Not for the first time, they pondered their arrival to this vessel, and the accompanying phenomena, as well as the precise nature of their companions. The only consensus they managed to form yet was that after carefully absorbing the information from the ship’s databanks, they were more likely to be able to puzzle out this enigma, as they felt they know had a much better picture about humanity than before.

The discussions, debates, the quest for a viable consensus went on for a virtual eternity. Theories were bandied about, supporting examples dragged up from both history and religion, human and otherwise. There was agreement that there were common themes in mythology and religion across all Council races, so they felt that even the non-human-specific facets of their data had merits in the discussion - and the tangent of analyzing such similarities in-depth was shelved for the time being, its relevance marked as potentially high but likely not conducive to reaching consensus about the current issue.

A trend seemed to be emerging, that may potentially form an acceptable consensus - and despite the rather outlandish-seeming conclusion, it contained solid, logical reasoning, supported by examples from countless sources across galactic history in general and humanity in particular. Even the strangeness would only strengthen this line of thought; as a tangential remark pointed out, if one eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, was the closest one could get to the truth. That line again prompted a check-up on the sensory equipment as well as the memories of the particular event, and the time elapsed since then, to attempt to verify that they have not been altered or modified by an outside source.

Again, an eternity of consideration, of referencing various philosophical and religious figures and views throughout the ages, finding parallels between the actions and abilities ascribed to those mythical beings, and the ones who travelled with them. The similarities were uncanny in several cases - made even more so when evidence was located about how later science explained those seemingly magical, supernatural efforts.

For a brief fraction of a second, the consensus was an imminent possibility - that was derailed when the implications of the previous conclusion sunk in, but before the discussion could veer off to an admittedly interesting tangent, the need for consensus prevailed. While the polling took a full, eternal second, the results were not surprising, nor was the subsequent action.

++++++

Aboard the  _ SSV Argo _ , the previously-motionless geth platform stirred after spending hours (days? weeks? minutes?) plugged into a computer node, then stepped towards the bridge. Its eye took in the two humans within, noted how the uniformed one had to suppress an instinctive reaction at a single eye glaring at him, before the blue light of its ocular sensor settled on the professor. Its eyeflaps raised, head tilted slightly towards the side, it asked in a voice full of childlike curiosity and uncertainty.

“Are you a god?”

And despite his age, experiences, and his companion’s reaction, Major Olof Pieterzoon could not stop laughing.


	4. Chapter 16

##  Minuteman Station, deep space (29/05/2183)

Miranda Lawson tried very hard to bring her nerves under control once again. The icy lump that settled deep in her stomach certainly did not help with that. She chastised herself for the inexcusable lack of self-control - after all, she was a trained, experienced ONI operative, who had received Δ-level training and had taken part in assignments that were considered borderline  **Opera Night** level. She was handpicked by the Illusive Man for her talents and skills, and in all her years of service, she did not disappoint the leader of Cerberus. Those who knew her were very much aware that she was no longer a little girl or an awkward teenager - yet those few who  _ knew  _ her would not have been surprised at her reaction.

She mentally reviewed her current assignment, catalogued her reports and plans, her mind running in circles trying to find the fault, the mistake, the error that necessitated  _ him _ , of all people, coming for a visit. No matter how hard she thought, she could not find anything - unless the leaders of Cerberus were unrealistic in their expectations about the progress of Lazarus. Sure, the Illusive Man was willing to sink immense amounts of resources into bringing Shepard back, but her team barely began the work - after all, they had to make a detailed schedule for the procedures, and actually purchase the required tools. So why was  _ he  _ here?

With a flash of horrified insight, Miranda suspected with cold dread that yes, considering the insane standards she was expected to adhere to, her project was not progressing sufficiently well enough. And as the director, she would be expected to shoulder the responsibility of failure - even more because she knew quite well how much her colleagues actually performed, and that the pace they were setting was nothing short of punishing. Yet, for an irrational moment, she toyed with the idea of blaming any delays and issues on them - aware that this would only result in a more severe retribution later on, but that would be later … then she reined in the unworthy impulse, and forced herself into the cold, distant mentality she tended to adopt when dealing with people like her latest visitor.

The private yacht was on final approach, and she again, like so many times before, recited her usual mantra - at least this way, Oriana would be free from his attention. At least she could get a relatively normal life. At least she would be free to choose her own path. And Miranda would never allow her sister to even skirt the possibility of having to deal with  _ him _ , and risking being  _ replaced _ . She thought back on those fleeting minutes, scant hours she managed to share with Oriana during the years - just the two of them, behaving like normal sibling, actual sisters … she mentally nodded, her resolve crystallizing once again. Yes, for those moments, for that one person she would endure whatever he had to throw at her.

The small vessel landed, and while the ramp lowered, she took three steps, snapping to attention, dimly aware that the rest of the personnel followed suit. The airlock irised open, and Henry Lawson stepped out, wearing a stylish, casual outfit as usual - though Miranda’s experienced eyes spotted the small shield generator, the ballistic weave reinforcing the cloth, and she fought to suppress a wince.  _ He would not come dressed like this unless he expected trouble _ .

“Welcome to Minuteman Station, sir.” Her voice was crisp, polite, and perfectly deferential, as she saluted him.

The former minister nodded shallowly, his eyes taking in the people in attendance, his stance and gaze somehow predatory, hungry.

“At ease, Operative Lawson.” He started off, and summoned her to his side with a gesture. A quick signal from Miranda dispersed the crowd, directing everyone back to their job. “I trust you can give me a tour and a detailed account of your progress?”

“Of course, sir.”

The answering smile she got from him sent shivers along her spine with the sheer hungry menace radiating from it.

Touring the station took several hours, during which Miranda would have gladly traded for doing containment work on a Yutani-Yi reactor going critical, or fighting a Blood Pack kill-squad barehanded. The problem, she reflected, was that Henry Lawson was quite intelligent to keep up with her technical explanations, actually pushed her for obscure details even for those aspects that she knew he had barely the basic knowledge - and thus, he expected her to make him understand, without loss of information. She learned very early, and to much pain, that he sometimes liked to bait her by pretending ignorance. 

So, she explained in detail, attentive to his every minuscule sign and prompt, catering to his whims without him having to do more than quirk an eyebrow. She learned fast, and she learned well under his harsh tutelage. 

They talked over the necessary wetware and cyberware that would be employed to strengthen Shepard’s body - the complex mesh of bone and muscle weaves, nanomachines, ocular and audio implants, subdermal armor, cleaned-up eezo nodule network, improved lungs - the list went on and on. Of course, this was the easy, routine part of the project - after all, it may have been expensive and rather broad in scope, but the only experimental procedure was the improvement on the eezo nodules. For a brief moment, she forgot who she was talking to, and actually suggested either giving that a lower priority, or omitting it outright, as it was not critical, and in her opinion, needlessly overcomplicated everything. The answering glance was enough to firmly shut down that line of thought.

The more esoteric and less-tried part of the project would be reversing or fixing the damage done to Shepard’s brain - both by the haemorrhages caused by overexertion, and the lack of oxygen from a suit leak. Sure, they could try and use the clones for brain tissue, employ nanites, add cortical implants - and that, in her opinion, might solve the physical issues, but memories, experience, personality were a different matter entirely. Replicating those would be the real challenge - and they would be venturing into unknown territory, even considering the recent developments and studies published in Kathmandu.

Hesitantly, she provided him with the outline of planned procedures, the resource needs and timeline involved, as well as a short list of personnel whose expertise would be useful for the various stages of the project. To her surprise, after a brief deliberation, he complied with her suggestions, only adding an entry here and there, when some practical issues he knew of made her suggested options unavailable.

The security improvements were also discussed in-depth - though it was clear to both that the whole work would soon be moved to Lazarus Station, it was agreed that the remoteness of the location by itself was not sufficient in and of itself, and that other defensive measures would be needed. Staffing the station with humans raised the issue of secrecy and provisions, while mechs, no matter how hardened, were always susceptible to hacking and advanced infowarfare tricks. In addition, considering the nature of the Reapers, using mechs may have other drawbacks as well, in case they or their indoctrinated agents found out about Lazarus Station. For the time being, they tabled this issue, though Miranda knew that Henry Lawson expected a full, detailed solution from her posthaste.

After the gruelling hours of the inspection, back in the hangar bay, Miranda stood once again at attention, saluting him as he prepared to board his yacht. He stopped for a brief moment, his stance, his whole bearing shifting just a tiny bit, and Miranda’s skin crawled as the hungry eyes drank in her figure, and she fought to remain calmly in place - she felt that should she give in to her instincts and flee, he would hunt her down and devour her, insane as the notion sounded. Even so, nothing could have prepared her for what happened next.

“You have done well, daughter.” And with a nod towards Miranda, Henry Lawson boarded his ship, and left the station.

Back in her office, Miranda engaged the privacy measures, checked for any unwelcome presents her progenitor may have left for her, then allowed herself to slump down, the stress of the past hours catching up to her. She was not surprised at the cold sweat on her brow, or the uncontrollable shaking of her hands. She knew that she would have to make a report to the Illusive Man, and the more she delayed, the more she would have to explain, but she found herself not exactly caring this one time. She felt even more drained than usual when dealing with Henry Lawson - and the ever-present menace the man seemed to exude was somehow even stronger this day. She shuddered, as her treacherous mind replayed the small, seemingly innocuous incidents and gestures she had seen him make - and she frowned, concentrating. 

Yes, there was something off about him. She could not point out the specific issue that tipped her off, it was likely a host of nigh-invisible signals even she would have missed on any other day, or in case of a shorter visit. She shivered again as her memory threw images at her consciousness - of the hungry, leering ghost of a smile on his lips, the menacing, insectile bearing when a sudden noise or motion was perceived, the raw hunger of his gaze, especially as he left… no, the more she thought about it, the more sure she was about her insane-seeming theory.

Still, she would have to take care with how to phrase it when she brought it to the Illusive Man - after all, her judgment was not exactly impartial when it came to Henry Lawson, and she had a vested interest in dealing with him… but even so, she felt compelled to point it out to her superior during their talk. At the very least, Miranda was sure that unlike Lawson, the Illusive Man would not punish her.

* * *

 

##  Tuchanka, contested Clan Urdnot territory (01/06/2183)

Tali decided that she hated Tuchanka. And being who and what she was, the young quarian did so in a meticulous, passionate way, throwing her whole self into that emotion. No, the fact that she had come to be rather fond of her self-appointed uncle did not mitigate her feelings. Neither did the knowledge that what they were doing mattered. She also would not care about the benefits that came with her passing the insanity Clan Urdnot considered as their rite of passage - those were the most terrifying five minutes of her life; and she swore that she would somehow, somewhen take revenge on Wrex for omitting details about the whole thing. Still, she supposed she should not complain - after all, she survived, at the low cost of an impressive collection of bruises, and a minor suit leak easily fixed … and a thankfully small number of breeding requests, which still left her in quite the emotional turmoil.

She was getting distracted again. On one hand, that was infuriating - she had to focus on her current task, if she wanted to succeed on her own. On the other hand, it was a welcome distraction from the bleakness of her predicament - and she did honestly hate this planet. If she was honest, it was not because of the over-boastful, over-aggressive krogan. Or the deadly creatures that roamed unchecked. Or the oppressive heat. Those she could all deal with, one way or another. No, she decided that she hated Tuchanka for one reason, and one reason only - sand. The ever-present menace that was everywhere, and got into everything; including her suit filters, seals … and it made life so much more miserable.

With a mental headshake, Tali once again focused on her present situation, which sadly did not improve while she was busy swearing vengeance and eternal hatred on sand in general and Tuchankan sand in particular. Her eyes narrowed as she once again felt herself being distracted - that would not do at all. Even if her fingers danced over her omnitool with consummate speed and skill, adjusting minute parameters, following the progress of her little tool burrowing its way through the Blood Pack encryption. 

Tali allowed herself a brief, vindictive chuckle. Sure, both she and the rest of the small Urdnot force were overwhelmed by the Blood Pack, their well-known viciousness and savagery surpassing even her imagination, as the mixed force of krogan, vorcha, and krork descended on the small, abandoned hospital they were assessing for the future experiments. Thinking back on the original briefing, Tali wondered why she seemed to be the only one who questioned using a hospital that was beyond the current safe area of Clan Urdnot - especially since there were a number of established hospitals in said area. Sure, there was some merit to having a more secluded, less obvious location for this project, and for sheltering the professor, but in Tali’s opinion, all that could have been established at one of the existing sites. 

But no, Wrex just chuckled in that infuriating way of his, and sent them off anyway, to see if the old, disused building complex could be renovated, the power plant restarted, and all the other myriad tasks of getting it back to fully operational status - and maybe more, as she suspected the old krogan had not simply asked her to go just because she eclipsed all Urdnot engineers when it came to dealing with dated tech. 

Anyway, she once again chastised herself - even though her breaching program was making headway, and in her estimate, it would not be much longer before she could overwhelm the brutish encryption on her cell door. With a vicious smirk, she reflected on the stupidity of the Blood Pack who were kind enough to leave her spare, disguised omnitool, thinking that a frail, weaponless suit rat like her was absolutely no challenge or danger to them. Her smirk fell as she thought back on the fate of her krogan teammates - sure, they did give a worthy account of themselves, but they all died trying to repel the overwhelming numbers of attackers. If they were a good representation of Clan Urdnot warriors, then her honorary uncle just might be able to bend Tuchanka to his will.

As her programs were working on hacking the force cage and codelocks confining her to her cell, which in better days was one of the ICU chambers of the hospital, she considered how she might deal with the guards stationed at her cell, with a low-powered omnitool, and a single knife. If it were only vorcha or those krork-things, she believed herself to be capable of killing them, especially since she could count on the element of surprise. But her guards also included krogan, so it would be much, much harder. With effort, Tali suppressed the urge to laugh hysterically at that - there had to be less painful suicide methods than taking on Blood Pack krogan hand-to-hand. She was not Shepard, or Wrex - or even that bosh’tet Garrus; she was still just a teenage quarian reliant on her armored encounter suit to survive even in non-violent situations.

The crackling, static-laced sound of the internal comm system she successfully shut out from her conscious mind intruded rudely, as the boisterous, rough snarling that passed for communication among the Blood Pack gave way to howls of pain, the roar of flamethrowers, and the deep booming of an oversized handgun. For a moment, she was confused - there was no chance of reinforcements yet, and all of her party were dead, the mercenaries made very sure of that. Realization hit a moment later, and her jaw dropped. It could not be him, he was just an elderly academic! Then some of the pieces began to fall into place, and her eyes narrowed. Yes, the old salarian was just a doctor - who practiced his vocation on Omega, of all locations. Without being molested by the various thugs and mercenaries frequenting that hellhole. Wrex, of all people, seemed to handle him with grudging respect - and so did the rest of Clan Urdnot, come to think of it. Those things suggested two possibilities for his background, and since he was not a Spectre to her admittedly-limited knowledge, that meant STG. 

Tali chuckled briefly. Of course he was former STG. Who else would be knowledgeable enough about the genophage, familiar enough with Tuchanka, and insane enough to actually come here, despite the vicious hatred krogan felt towards salarian. Still, that only meant that she did have capable backup - she was not a damsel in distress to lazily await rescue. That said, she paid more attention to the comm system, as well as her jailers, noting how they repositioned themselves to cover the entry points to the block, and she grudgingly had to admit that they seemed competent enough, if not up to MFM or Clan Urdnot standards. A notification blinked in her suit’s HUD, and she swallowed. Two more minutes, and she would be free from the cell.

The shooting and screaming from the comm system died off, leaving the ICU in ominous silence, only broken by the growling communication between the half dozen Blood Pack members guarding her. That is, until the central vid screen lit up, showing an elderly salarian with part of a cranial horn missing. Tali’s eyes narrowed at the image - something was off with his coloring, the image was strangely blurred, even more than the outdated, damaged system would warrant.

“What do you want, salarian?” The mercenary leader growled. “Why don’t you give up, unless you want to see your little suitrat splattered all over her cell’s walls.”

“Demand noted, deemed insane ploy. Now, please release quarian or face consequences.”

Deep, disbelieving laughter echoed in the block, and Tali considered - true, there was but one entrance, no windows, sewers, or air vents that would allow even a slim salarian entry. And while he did manage to cut through the rest of the pack, these bastards had a clear field of fire, and despite his skills, he was old, and age never spared the reflexes. Except maybe for Wrex, she mused for a brief second.

“Just try and get her, you hornless freak!”

A little less than a minute left - and maybe with her getting out, she could distract the guards enough for him to pull this off. Then Tali’s eyes widened as the reinforced door irised open, and the hallway was instantly inundated with a storm of fire as the mercenaries opened fire. The hail of bullets and roaring of flames subsided after a few seconds. The lingering heat from the flamethrower did make it even harder to perceive, but Tali’s eyes narrowed as she caught the tell-tale shimmer of a tactical cloak, before a small, metallic sound drew gazes from the more alert mercenaries - especially since it came from behind them, where a shimmering, distorted image of a salarian manifested seemingly from thin air.

The reflexes of the mercenaries were quite good, as the salarian was only halfway to aiming his oversized gun, before they riddled him with bullets, and a vorcha hosed him with a flamethrower - making the salarian dissipate into motes of light.

Three small omni-fabricated cylinders rolled into the mercenaries just when Tali’s omnitool pinged, alerting her of the imminent breakthrough - just when the flashbangs exploded, and the whole hallway became a blinding, howling den of chaos. The split-second warning she had was enough for Tali to filter out the worst of it, allowing her to see the lithe figure of the salarian appear from under a tactical cloak next to one of the krogan, blow apart its skull with that oversized handgun, before aiming a kick at the vorcha with the flamethrower to light the other krogan on fire, then the second shot spattered the contents of the vorcha’s skull all over the wall. His omnitool flared with an overload charge, and the fourth mercenary became a spasming marionette, before a shove sent the vorcha colliding with one of the krorks, the green brute’s gun practically sawing its flailing comrade apart, before the slash of an omniblade sent the tusked head rolling - but the move cost both time and distance, and the last krork was raising its monstrous cannon, to blow both the professor and Tali to bits.

The mercenary roared in pained fury as Tali’s thrown blade found one of its deep-seated eyes and sank in almost to the hilt - then the roar changed pitch to a tortured scream as the quarian’s omnitool flashed, shorting its internal power but sending a very powerful charge of electricity straight into its brain.

Mordin Solus flashed a grin at the young quarian, as he reached out a hand to steady her.

“Nice work.” A quick exhale. “As stated before: they never see me coming.”

* * *

 

##  Asgard system, Exodus cluster (16/07/2183)

The colony of Terra Nova was considered one of the crown jewels of the Systems Alliance, important both from economic and military reasons. Its vast shipyards were second only to those of the Sol system itself, the resources of the system, the proximity of Terra, and the constant presence of the Alliance Sixth Fleet all presented a very enticing destination for colonists - and naturally, all that resulted in Terra Nova becoming one of the highest priority targets for any possible enemy of the SA. Of course, the system was well-protected; a constantly-shifting pattern of patrol ships and elements of the Sixth Fleet (including a dreadnought and two carriers) were enough to discourage overt assaults, while detachments of N-level operatives, with a dozen N7 in command were considered ample deterrent for clandestine operations. The electronic systems were top-notch, the security personnel manning them thoroughly screened. Numerous countermeasures were taken to avoid infiltration attempts both to the electronic systems and the physical sites as well - firewalls, booby traps, tailored omni-viruses lying in dormancy, EMP hardening, shifting patterns of guard patrols, VI-controlled and human-monitored surveillance and control systems, and so forth. The presence of special operatives also meant that there were more esoteric methods employed as well, to prevent remote access, identify and dispose of intruders, and as additional constant sources of monitoring. A favorite target for N7 blood games and Navy tactical scenarios, the Terra Nova shipyard was considered only slightly easier pickings than Terra or Mars - an estimate that was also echoed by the Council, the Hegemony, and the Broker as well. 

And that was just on normal days. When dignitaries came visiting, security levels were raised to almost full wartime readiness - especially when somebody like President Speer came personally, to oversee the launch of the first new  _ Everest _ -class dreadnoughts. The people responsible for defending and securing the system were justified in their confidence to repel frontal attacks or covert operations even simultaneously, regardless of which factions conducted said attempts ( _ of course, they were fully unaware of the advanced, biomechanical surveillance devices deposited by loyal, fanatic agents as well as unfortunate, unaware catspaws - and that all data they stored about the past attempts and theoretical scenarios, along with patrol routes and current force disposition was monitored by the enemy _ ).

Due to the beefed-up security measures, increased naval presence, numerous AIS teams and Presidential protection details, everybody expected a very tiring, nerve-wracking, but ultimately peaceful few days. There was even an upswing in commercial vessels arriving, no doubt taking advantage of the additional security to deploy their precious cargo - not that there was too much of a chance of pirates or slavers attacking SA ships. After all, Torfan was still a potent, recent reminder of what humanity was willing and capable to do to those who would prey on them. 

Later on, senate investigations and court martials would corroborate the belief of the system commanders, ultimately placing the responsibility to the shoulders of other people, not present in-system. Their decisions and actions would be by and large vindicated, the few faults committed ultimately negligible in the face of the unfolding disaster - and sadly, rather understandable. After all, they were only human. The inquiries by the Senate and the Fleet Master would lay the foundations for the shadowy struggle to be conducted in the coming months - with the Alliance still in the dark about the true nature of their enemies and the capabilities they possessed.

++++++

Not a single operator in Flight Control took extra notice of the slowly maneuvering bulk freighter closing towards the docking area. It had peacefully followed instructions, provided the proper codes and clearances, the customs team did not report anything unusual or suspicious on board ( _ their bodies were never found, their screams and the sounds of combat swallowed by hypertech jamming devices, their identities usurped upon return by operatives loyal to another cause _ ).

The MSV  _ Dresden  _ headed for final approach unmolested, well clear of the military docks housing the SSV  _ Everest  _ and SSV  _ Annapurna _ , as well as the four almost-finished new carriers. The pilot of the oversized civilian vessel was careful to precisely follow instructions, projecting the image of a sufficiently overawed and cowed civilian. That is, until the pre-arranged signal arrived ( _ the strange, soul-grating atonal shriek was akin to the buzzing wings of an immense biomechanical swarm, fully undetectable unless fitted with custom augmentations in the central nervous system _ ).

The busy, ant-like scurrying of the orbital dockyard was broken as the huge bulk freighter turned into a brilliant, expanding ball of fire, debris, and electronic jamming - blinding all watching personnel and nearby monitoring equipment, rendering the emerging assault shuttles practically invisible. The waves of multi-frequency jamming and garbage data also masked the vicious automated worms burrowing deep into the VI systems struggling to compensate for the sudden overwhelming data flow. The biomechanical and augmented operators howled in their couches and at their workstations, as the hungry claws of malicious code reached into their selves, turning cyberbrains, artificial limbs, biotech and high-tech enhancements against their owners, frying nerves, muscles, flesh - when not turning the unfortunates into helpless marionettes silently screaming within their own minds.

Simultaneously, hundreds of firefights erupted as previously calm, everyday residents of the system turned on those in their vicinity, guns and omniblades reaping a toll of blood from the unwary before the rioters were put down - and it would be only later that the holographic tattoo of the interlocked, broken hexagons would be found on their bodies, the only common link between them, apart from traces of nanoscale tampering. 

The assault shuttles swarmed towards the military docks, three for each capital ship. The defense grid ignored them, as it was still in the middle of waging a war in cyberspace against itself, the various emplacements unable to track, to lock on, or fire - in hindsight, that particular bit of coding would be praised as the most crucial reason the attackers were not able to turn the defense grid against the planet or the orbitals.

Aboard the dreadnoughts and carriers still tethered to the docks, frantic skeleton crews raced to contain the onboard Yutani-Yi reactors that were on their way to awakening thanks to the alien signal battering down security measures and flooding the ship systems with contradicting impulses. Captain Langley aboard the  _ Everest  _ laid the foundation of her future fame when she ordered the computers shut down less than a minute into the attack, and executed  and emergency micro-FTL jump two minutes afterwards, clearing the comparatively short range of the alien signal, and containing her vessel’s reactor. The other five ships were not so fortunate. The  _ Eisenstein  _ perished in an explosion of dark flames, the dying screams of her crew and the malevolent atonal shrieking of the awakened shoggoth battering at the minds of those nearby. The  _ Tsiolkovsky  _ slipped from her berth, erratically firing maneuvering thrusters to keep itself from plummeting into the gravity well of Terra Nova, while her crew fended off the attacking batarians and fought to contain the reactor. The  _ Annapurna  _ became a slaughterhouse, as six assault shuttles full of elite batarian shock troopers and biotics charged its crew and the presidential security detachment onboard, the chaotic firefight turned into a bloodbath when the reactor containment imploded, birthing numerous abominations across the ship. The  _ Dyson  _ tore free from her docking slip, her dark shape sliding with a stately grace towards Terra Nova, while aboard batarians and humans alike were drowned under the tidal wave of darkness, teeth, power and malice that was an enraged shoggoth, before the self-destruct tore the ship into pieces, turning it into a shower of meteors that burned up in the atmosphere. The  _ Komarov _ , similar to the  _ Everest _ , vanished with the pseudo-motion of an FTL jump, only to turn into a brief, yawning vortex of unsane colors and shrieking insanity a fraction of a second later, as its reactor containment failed catastrophically, hurling all into the depths of the n-dimensional space.

The naval vessels tasked with defending the system were presented with another threat when fortress asteroid X-57 lit up its fusion drives, and began to accelerate towards the shipyard and the planet. The surface of the asteroid saw vicious battle, as heavily cyberized batarian shock troopers in black armor fought with fanatical determination to hold off Alliance marines attempting to retake the drive control stations before the batarians could slag the controls. Flashes of explosions, both mundane and biotic lit up the small planetoid, as the four-eyed aliens received reinforcements in the form of LOKI and JOTUN mechs that poured from another ore container. Later investigation would determine that the mechs and batarians alike managed to get to the asteroid in storage containers that were equipped with highly sophisticated jamming tech that fooled both electronic and esoteric security measures - and since the ore haulers were cleared by customs, the dirtside inspection was cursory, only conducted with scanners; after all, empty containers on a planetoid which doubled as mining station were not exactly a rare occurrence.

The fusion torches pushed the asteroid onto a collision course with the dockyard - and the ranking survivor of the marine detachment, all too aware of the extent the batarians managed to sabotage the controls and the guidance systems, signalled for the system defense fleet to open fire, hoping that volleys of mass accelerator rounds and torpedoes might be enough to crack X-57 apart rendering the danger of an extinction-level kinetic strike manageable. The first shots were fired scant minutes later, as the SSV  _ Shasta  _ reached extreme range - and in fifteen minutes it became quite evident that without resorting to C-type bombardment, there was practically no chance of breaking apart the asteroid in time. Captain Feige’s decision to request permission for using bombardment shells may have been a grievous mistake in other circumstances - however, the SSV  _ Everest  _ dropped out from FTL within range of X-57, and Captain Langley’s reckless gambit of firing her vessel’s positron cannon while rerouting all power from the reactor paid off, and the asteroid broke apart when the immensely powerful beam hit the site of the previous volley. However, the small victory was not without cost, as the safety interlocks of the  _ Everest _ ’s reactor failed, releasing the already partially awake and murderous shoggoth. Despite severe losses to her crew and suffering several wounds (including the loss of the left eye, the right arm, and being partially consumed), Captain Langley managed to contain the rampaging shoggoth until an N7 team could be dispatched to finish the job.

Beyond the system’s edge, lurking outside the detection range of the defensive installations and patrol ships, Ka’hairal Balak was considering the results of the attack, and concluded that while they did not fully achieve their goals, the Hegemon would likely allow him to live. Based on the intercepted and decrypted messages, their raid managed to critically wound the human president Speer, the dockyards were heavily damaged, the capital ships to be launched were either destroyed or at the very least extensively damaged, putting more strain on the remaining Alliance shipyards. Also, the raid did verify the capabilities and willingness of the allies of the Hegemony - and Balak was forced to admit to himself that they impressed him. Both the Broker’s people and the Collectors provided excellent tactical and strategic advantages via intel, equipment and specialists, yet deep down, the batarian Captain wondered what they would demand for the undeniably useful assistance. He just prayed to the Pillars that the Hegemon was wiser and more far-seeing than himself, and could avoid any potential pitfalls and intrigues.

The repercussions of the attack again shook the delicate status quo - the Alliance descended into internal power struggles, as its leaders fought for the Presidency. The previously tolerated members of Cerberus were hunted down, forced into hiding, as evidence of their organization’s involvement came to light, whipping the populace into a frenzy that Terra Firma did not fail to capitalize upon. The officer cadre, especially the upper echelons, were scrutinised and purged, as Fleet Master Sheridan cracked down on all who were perceived to be less than zealous in their adherence to the unspoken humanity first tenet ( _ strangely, very few noticed that with few exceptions, the previously-capable victims of the purge vanished after their trials _ ). 

In Vancouver, General Erwin von Ungern-Sternberg noted the events with grim satisfaction and swore that the sacrifice of his people at Terra Nova would not be in vain.

Henry Lawson, former Minister of Education, committed suicide when the first outcry against Cerberus was raised. 

And those sensitive to the currents of aetheric origins, or n-dimensional physics, dreamt of the ancient pyramid rendered long to dust, and the laughter of the unnamed pharaoh who was entombed within.


	5. Chapter 17

##  Nos Astra, Ilium (18/07/2183)

Liara T’Soni felt torn between worry and wrath while she perused the latest intelligence updates about the Systems Alliance. In the past few months, she was forced to gain a rather closer insight into human minds and politics than she would have deemed possible before the Saren Crisis, and in her (perhaps biased, she thought with a slight blush) humans, for all their apparent and deep-seated flaws, were in many ways worthier and more admirable than her own kind. And just when she contemplated officially, publicly voicing her opinions on the extranet as well as her SA contacts, something like the Asgard Atrocity happens. 

No, she was in no way immune to the plight of the suffering citizens - in fact, she had already discreetly channeled a substantial amount of resources from her personal portfolio into a relief fund the Alliance set up. She also could not but admire the sheer determination and valor of the system’s defenders, the workers and ordinary citizens who already struggled to rebuild what they could, salvaging wrecks for raw materials, rescuing survivors, cleaning up hazardous materials and creatures (admittedly, the latter she only knew because of her own unique circumstances). However, the political ramifications were utterly infuriating and shortsighted in her opinion - already, there were riots when people demanded swift, genocidal reactions against the Hegemony, or even against the uncaring Council and its associates, who were just standing by and letting humanity bleed for them. The fact that Sparatus decried the batarian aggression hours after the attack happened and offered logistical and military assets, that Tevos offered access to the disaster recovery funds of the Council, that Zaal’Koris was ready to send quarian engineers to assist or that Valern directed both the STG and Spectre operatives to find and punish the perpetrators - all these were summarily ignored, never mind Udina’s stance and calls for cooperation. In fact, there were distressing voices from the SA Parliament that demanded the recall of Udina from his post, and for the SA to wholly abandon the Council. Fortunately, sanity seemed to prevail, and these voices were in a minority - yet the mere fact that barely half a year after all the SA in general and Shepard in particular sacrificed for achieving the membership, such voices could be heard at all was more than distressing.

The military was closing ranks under Fleet Master Sheridan, his push for an interim martial law and military government was met with fierce resistance (again, resulting in riots, shootings, and killed civilians) - and while Liara did not particularly like the rather speciesist officer, at least he’d not neglect preparation for the imminent arrival of the Reapers. Unfortunately, she concurred with her analysts that the whole SA would likely be embroiled in a power struggle that had the potential to escalate into full-on civil war. And what frightened and infuriated her the most was that nobody seemed to consider that this may have very well been the whole reason some unknown player (likely the same that took direct action at Alchera) lent so much support to the batarians.

Her eyes narrowed, as she contemplated the report, then at the spurring of some half-buried instinct not entirely her own, she started referencing earlier data, looking for certain patterns, actions guided by seemingly illogical beliefs and hunches of prominent figures - and after several hours, the young information broker believed she found enough evidence to bring to the attention of those scant few SA personnel she dared trust in times like these. With a start, she realized guiltily that she’d have to reassess the SA, especially Cerberus-affiliated personnel of her fledgling firm. Even if she was confident of their loyalties, she did not know them all personally - well, except for Leng, and his partner, Jacqueline. Liara figured the ex-N7 could and would give her a hand in quietly double-checking the reliability of the personnel, and to be on the safe side, she’d contact Hackett as well, her experiences and memories all prompting her to trust the admiral. The asari also considered contacting Agent Lawson as well - while she did not know the AIS agent very well, she was aware that the woman was very dedicated to the same goals for which Shepard went to such absurd lengths, was privy to similar secrets and powers as Shepard, was working hard on getting Shepard back into the fight, and …

And she really should have known better than to dwell on things that might have been or still might be - unless Fate decided to play a merry game with them. Feelings, emotions were sometimes a liability in all jobs, more so for an information broker - yet she could not entirely shake them off when the mostly-dead Spectre was involved. Especially when she dealt with issues or people that were even tangentially connected to him. Perhaps it was still the lingering aftereffect of that brief, glorious, and horrific glimpse she was allowed into his mind - and once again, Liara decided to consult a trustworthy Matron or Matriarch for advice about such effects of involuntary melds. But there was so much to do, and with a sigh, she turned her attention back towards the multiple screens of information, contacts, projections and forecasts on her desk, fully intent to bury herself in work again - if only to shove aside bitter memories and dreams.

She was interrupted when a hand landed lightly on her shoulder - and she almost jumped out of her skin, even though she rationally knew that it could belong to only one person. Still, the laconic drell had an uncanny ability to fade into the background, being practically invisible; and Liara prayed to the Goddess that she would never have a need to see his skills being used first-hand. Looking into the bodyguard’s onyx eyes, she swallowed, a cold dread settling in her core, a gesture of her omnitool ordering her VI to push sensitive files to pre-designed, well-encrypted offsite storage locations, as well as her omnitool.

“We got trouble.” The deep, raspy voice was quiet, calm; he might have been talking about the weather on a distant planet. “Prepare yourself.”

Before Liara could even start gathering information or her power, the whole building seemed to shudder as a muffled, distant explosion from somewhere down sent shockwaves into the sturdy structure. Lights and screens flickered for a moment, then changed focus to the internal security cameras at a gesture from the drell. It took Liara an eternal second to fully absorb what she was seeing. Black-clad feminine figures swirled into the offices, fading in and out of sight, their blades removing limbs, biting into flesh with a vicious, eager glee. No faces were visible under the masks the attackers wore, yet, they seemed to radiate an eager, psychotic glee as they massacred the surprised employees of Liara, few of whom could muster any kind of effective defense against such a surprise assault. And those that did manage to fight off or kill their shadowy attackers were dealt with by a masked man and his tattooed companion. Liara’s biotics pulsed with fury as she fought to regain control of herself in the face of this betrayal.

“We are leaving, Lady T’Soni.” The drell motioned with his omnitool, and stumbled, his eyes ocean-deep pools of black suffering. A fraction of a second later, the tide of sheer, utter  _ wrongness _ , of unnatural, soul-devouring cold hit Liara as well, driving the primal part of her being into full panic. The temperature seemed to fall, waves of nausea threatened to overwhelm the tattered remains of her self-control while she struggled not to curl into a fetal position weeping and clawing her eyes out. Dark spots danced in her vision, her biotics sputtered as her consciousness teetered on the brink of the abyss. She was once again the small child, the helpless captive of a Prothean barrier curtain, a prey animal paralyzed by the apex predator intent on devouring her. Perhaps she would be better off just letting go, fleeing deep into her memories from the  _ thing  _ that battered on her sanity and self with lashing, vicious vortices. Perhaps she should have incinerated herself with her biotics - it would definitely end the pain knifing into her soul much faster. Perhaps she could have even thrown herself from the window of her office, and let the height and gravity do the rest. All these would surely have been more merciful than the fate awaiting her.

Yet something deep within her resisted. Maybe it was a spark of golden warmth briefly glimpsed in her memories. Or the image of a man who might become as close to her as she dreamed of. Or maybe it was her own self, the daughter of the late Benezia T’Soni, the heir of her legacy reasserting itself. At any rate, it was a moot point. The important part was that by the time a warp field ate a hole into her office door, she did manage to get herself somewhat under control - certainly well enough to call up her biotics and deflect the four monomolecular-edged disks aimed at her and her bodyguard.

Liara barely managed to control her terror, revulsion and fury as Kai Leng and Jacqueline entered the room, preceded by a wall of biotic force she barely managed to dissipate before it could pulp both herself and Thane - then the drell was no longer at her side, but embroiled in a whirling dance of death with Leng. Liara’s eyes narrowed at Jacqueline, as the woman deployed four more of the hyperedged disks, a feral yet somehow distant, vacant look in her eyes. Then her corona ignited, and the asari fell into the timeless, fragmentary perception of combat, her mind only able to record impressions and the occasional detail while she fought with every erg of power against the tattooed woman and the lapping waves of  _ wrongness _ , terror, and nausea that seemed to emanate from Kai Leng.

The young asari half-heard the taunting remarks, interspersed with the booming of handguns that accompanied the duel between Thane and Leng - and she occasionally caught a glance at the edge of her vision of how the drell managed to stay in one piece against a sword which could and did cut through flesh, armor, and biotic barrier alike. And yet Thane easily turned it aside just enough to avoid it, simply hitting the flat of the blade with a precise biotic field - or just his hands, wreathed in the same energy. Amidst the whirling dance, the drell even had more than enough situational awareness to deny any chance to Kai Leng for joining his partner, or getting a viable opportunity to shoot Liara - when Thane was even a bit out of position, those uncannily precise biotics of his pulsed, moving the human’s weapon just a bit aside, hurling small objects at him or in the way; then the drell was on him, once again, fist wreathed in biotic force, pistol spewing death at the ex-N7. Yet for all his skill and experience, Leng was matching him, never letting up, not giving the drell an opportunity to focus his deadly attention on Jacqueline, or to assist Liara in any meaningful way.

The two biotics weaved a dance of their own as well, as they flung biotic fields at one another, turned the furniture into makeshift projectiles or shields, fought desperately over the control of the deadly disks - and the longer they went at it, the more Liara had to respect the abilities of her opponent. Sure, she had more raw power - as an asari, especially as a scion of House T’Soni, that was inevitable. She had several decades more of practical experience, naturally - despite being young for an asari, she was still more than thrice the woman’s age. Yet Jacqueline has been molding herself (or was purposefully shaped) into a weapon, honing her skills for exactly this kind of confrontation. A year ago, Liara would not have lasted a minute against her, but after fighting alongside Shepard’s crew, she did manage to put up rather more of a fight than their attackers obviously estimated. The opposing biotic fields tore apart furniture, melted or cut apart walls, windows, the concussive detonations of shockwaves and biotic explosions several times threatening to hurl the combatants to their deaths. Singularities and lift fields tried to turn their opponent into helpless, floating targets, biotic punches and kicks were deflected by barriers and stop-hits, and neither of the two powerhouses could spare the brief seconds of concentration and calmness to utilize a stasis field.

Liara swayed aside from a disk aimed at her throat, blocked a throw field with a singularity, redirected another disk towards Leng, embedded the third halfway into the wall, the fourth managed to cut through her barrier and tore into her armored coat, drawing a line of purple from her skin - and she barely managed to throw it away with a pulse of biotics before monofilament wires snapped out from it, seeking her flesh. The young asari melted the fifth into slag with a lucky warp field, the sixth was sent careening off by a shot from Thane, the last two stopped midway between her and Jacqueline for seconds - then the stalemate was broken by the violent destabilization of the opposed biotic fields, the explosion forcing all four of them to pause and shield themselves. A momentary pause followed while reassessing the situation - then Kai Leng smiled, a broken, horrific thing of metal and malice, before he nodded with grudging respect towards Thane and Liara.

Time seemed to slow down even further for the asari, as she saw Leng form words, the sound distorted, queasy, like a nail driven into her brain - she could not understand the drawn-out words fully, but she could feel the power and nauseating, utter  _ wrongness _ pull back like the ocean before an incoming tidal wave. And to make things worse, Liara could hear running steps closing from outside - very likely the surviving masked killers were coming to join the fight, and even one of them would be more than enough to take her and Thane out. 

The wild hope of the explosive combat bringing in the Nos Astra police was dashed as soon as Liara thought of it - after all, despite the bloodshed, it was still contained within a single company building, not endangering the populace at large … and at that moment, she made her decision.

“... field, full ...” Leng’s rasping, mocking whisper clawed at her sanity, urging her to flee, to cower, to buckle down and weep - then Liara reached out with her biotics towards Thane, then with a cry of effort, flung both herself and the drell from the window, her corona blazing, a golden heat igniting for the brief seconds of flight somewhere in the back of her brain - then with a half-bitten painful scream, they landed on the pavement about two dozen floors down from her office. Before she could even get her bearings, Thane was already in motion, guiding and pulling her along into the depths of Nos Astra’s alleys, towards a safehouse he established there.

The warning from Miranda Lawson arrived scant hours later to her omnitool.

 

* * *

 

 

##  Omega, Sahrabarik system (22/07/2183)

Most days, Bray enjoyed his work. Pay was good, the perks were excellent, and Aria was a definitely saner boss than the Hegemon or his ilk. Sure, she had a vicious, mean streak lightyears wide, she was ruthless to the point of cruelty, she only made an example of those who failed her without exceedingly good reason, and she only had two eyes - but for all that, she was intelligent, listened, and sometimes even accepted that her subordinates could not foresee or control the chaos that often erupted in Omega. Well, and of course as long as you did not break the famed Rule of Omega, she tended to leave you well enough alone. 

Sadly, Bray thought that this would not be one of those happy, usual days. No, when the situation was already precarious with the three largest mercenary groups quietly conspiring behind Aria’s back (as if Bray’s people would not notice it), the Council just had to add two of its Spectres to the mix. All in all, the day was promising to be highly entertaining (from the skewed view of his boss/CEO/Queen, whatever she would feel like that day) and akin to a terrifying tightrope walk over lava-dwelling predators (in his own modest estimate). He tried to cheer himself up with the prospect of unleashing violence on those idiot mercs who were responsible for so much of his daily headaches, and the fact that he’d have a front row seat while Aria and the Spectres haggled. On second thought, he realized that said front row seat was more of a curse than a perk - if things escalated, he’d be practically at ground zero. Fun times, as usual. With a short but heartfelt prayer to the Pillars of Strength, Bray went to meet his destiny and entered the Afterlife.

The pounding music, swirling crowd, writhing dancers delivered the usual punches to the senses, yet Bray was sufficiently used to it after the years that he could pick up the much subtler signs and moods - and what he felt now was not to his liking at all. There was a conspicuous lack of mercs at the place, except for the usual few turians of Nyreen’s Talons. His pulse quickened, as he rapidly typed on his omnitool, pulling up the latest intel reports from on-station. The lack of warning flags, of suspicious troop concentrations, of anything indicating that the three main merc leaders were doing anything out of the ordinary would have relaxed him on other days. Not today; in fact, he got even more worried about missing or simply not seeing something blindingly obvious and dangerous. Maybe if he had time, he could have puzzled it out - but when he reached Aria’s usual box, he had to attend his boss, and shelve his worries. At least he hoped that the Spectres would be sane enough not to begin a fight.

The two Council operatives had a rather thick dossier, and Bray mentally ran through the contents he memorized, assessing the Spectres, trying to estimate how much of that dossier was factual, and how much was rejected from a Blasto screenplay for excessiveness. His quick conclusion was that both Nihlus Kryik and Tela Vasir probably were, if anything, underestimated in the reports - and he mentally winced at the likely fate of the less-than-thorough analysts sure to feel Aria’s displeasure. At least it would not be him, and judging by the familiarity between the two asari, it may not amount to more than harsh words and a paycut. 

“So, Aria, are you willing to accept our more than generous offer?” Tela’s eyes twinkled with mirth, as she lounged back with deliberate carelessness, and even Bray needed a second to spot the signs of tension and alertness in the Spectre’s posture. She was good at playing the indolent, slightly empty-headed hedonistic asari, that was for sure.

“You still haven’t told me why I really should - or how exactly I would benefit from it, dear.” Aria’s voice was bored, her whole being screaming indifference. Except for those who knew her as closely as Bray did.

Nihlus grinned, his mandibles flaring in a predatory expression.

“Because we should not have to spell it out for you, Queen of Omega.” The slight, somewhat mocking emphasis on the title had to be deliberate, and around them, Aria’s guards inside the privacy field stiffened at the insult. “You have to have access to the same reports, or near enough, and you have been around for far longer than most. I would be surprised if you did not see the situation as clearly as we do.”

Aria’s voice was a frosty whisper, silk sliding along the naked eyeball.

“Yes, I am well aware of how deep in shit your precious Council is, Nihlus. That does not mean I give a damn about helping you, especially without compensation.” She smiled then, showing teeth. “This is Omega, not a charity event on the Citadel. You have to do better than this if you want my cooperation, Spectre.”

Tela Vasir laughed then, and Bray tensed, ready for violence at the sheer predatory sound.

“You have been playing the Queen too long, Aria. Think like a commando would - or better yet, think like you yourself would, if you had delusions of grandeur and plans for galactic domination.” She sipped from her glass. “Don’t you dare tell me you cannot perceive the puppets moving on the table. Not unless your chief lackey is an idiot” - Tela gestured towards Bray - “and idiots do not survive for over two decades at your side.”

“That still does not tell me why you want to turn Omega into a damn fortress, station Citadel forces here, and expect me to be happy about it.”

Nihlus took over.

“Because if our information from the Thessian archives and our associates in the SA is correct, the Collectors were involved kicking off this whole shitstorm when they destroyed Shepard’s ship.” The predatory grin made another appearance on the turian’s visage. “And they tend to come via the Omega-4 relay. Do I need to spell it out in more detail?”

Tela.

“If they come in force, darling, you can bet your sweet ass that we will not hesitate in denying the station to them, if need be.” The asari Spectre’s eyes lit up with an almost manic fire. “Think how happy the Justicars will be when they are unleashed on your little kingdom, with the Council Fleet supporting them.”

Aria glared at her, then at Nihlus, when the turian took over once more.

“We would prefer working with you, because you know are a known, sane quantity, and we would not have to waste resources in pacifying Omega.” He raised a hand placatingly. “I know, it would be very costly, and that you could kill most of us in a duel. But you and your petty kingdom would fall sooner rather than later. Because this time, if we were to go to war against Omega, we would not care about casualties, costs, or the pacts you made with the Terminus warlords or Council politicians.” The turian’s smile was a tired, worn thing. 

The two Spectres spoke in uncanny harmony, as only long-time, close comrades could

“We will secure Omega, no matter the cost. Do you want to be Queen of the station, or a spirit haunting the ruins, lamenting her former power? What shall it be, Aria T’Loak?”

The slow, sarcastic clapping of Aria defused the tension, as she leaned back and relaxed on her couch.

“Very nice. Very dramatic. How long did you practice it, I wonder.” 

“Not that long, Nihlus is very good at following orders when properly motivated.” After the years in close proximity to Aria, the constant exposure to Afterlife, Bray thought himself immune to the traditional asari charms. With a simple sentence, a languid stretch, and a smoking gaze, none of them directed at him, Tela Vasir convinced him of how mistaken he was. Then again, she had been doing this for over a century, so perhaps he could be forgiven.

“Suppose I agree to this little idea of yours, because I happen to think that you see the situation correctly.” Aria began, her tone and posture studiously nonchalant. “Why is your shadowy associate not involved in this, Tela? Why do the intelligence briefings and purchased reports not contain anything from the Broker Network?”

The two Spectres shared a glance, and Bray’s breath caught at the implications. His mind raced, cursing himself for missing this small but in hindsight obvious factor of the latest briefings, then his eyes went wide, as he went a few steps further, his hand twitching towards his omnitool to confirm his fears.

“Because there is no way the batarians could have pulled off something like Terra Nova without the Broker getting at least hints. And considering how it affected the usual status quo, the Broker should have given advance warning, or at least, hints about the juicy bit of information he had for sale. Yet he was totally quiet about the whole thing, and there hasn’t been much substantial information off the Network since the attack.” Tela Vasir’s eyes burned with barely-contained rage. “Do the math, Aria. He’s either dead, or in bed with the enemy.”

Aria’s answer died in her throat as the station shuddered minutely, and Bray’s omnitool flashed a warning. The batarian checked it, not caring about protocol or dangerous overreactions, and his eyes went wide. A gesture projected the images to the conference table, and he could hear Nihlus murmur a curse, while both Aria and Tela looked mutely, the Queen’s eyes twin pools of infernal wrath.

On screen, a howling, berserk green tide wearing the colors of the Blood Pack swarmed from the depths of Omega, overwhelming the defenders, killing and destroying indiscriminately in their path. Crackling with strange energies, the feral roar of the krork mob and their krogan leaders were still drowned out by the never-ceasing gunfire and the whine of vibro-weapons brandished in green fists. The view from the docks showed the Eclipse troops, augmented with strangely-modified JOTUN mechs sporting unfamiliar insignia, overpowering Aria’s defenders, storming the ships, getting control over the docked vessels, and more importantly, the orbital defenses, while their engineers immediately set to fortifying the access points. 

The security systems glitched out more and more often as the Blue Sun cyberwarfare specialists took over subsystem after subsystem; their hacking programs, worms and viruses orders of magnitudes more efficient and intelligent than those of Aria’s best hackers - and the Queen of Omega never skimped on cybersecurity. Yet now, firewalls presented at best a speedbump for the attackers, and Bray had barely enough time to send out a few commands and warnings to their troops before the console built into the table lit up with a sickly yellow light, and the deep, basso rumble sounded.

“ **I AM ASSUMING CONTROL OF THIS STATION.** ”

For a moment, there was a stunned silence, then the lights flickered, and the screaming started, as the gates of Afterlife yawned open, and the swarm of the Blood Pack flooded the club, their howls for blood creating an unholy symphony with the agonized cries of wounded and dying defenders, the constant weapon fire, and the explosions of biotic fields.

Bray checked his sidearm and shield generator with a stoic calmness, sure that he’d be dead within a minute, two tops. Around him, the few bodyguards considered part of the inner circle did the same. Aria and the two Spectres looked more pissed off and wrathful than anything. Biotic energy sparked off both asari, and Nihlus was checking something on his omnitool, before nodding towards Aria.

“Our ship’s still secure. We can get you out of here.”

The Queen of Omega rounded on him, her eyes raging oceans of power and fury, a biotic-wreathed fist raised to backhand the offending turian. Tela interposed herself, her gaze deceptively calm, her biotic corona tightly controlled, with barely a spark showing, as opposed to Aria’s blazing wrath.

“Don’t be an idiot, Aria. Not even you can take on this horde - and we will need you now more than ever. Both for your power and for your knowledge.” The asari Spectre’s voice was tightly controlled, yet Bray could hear the underlying anger, much colder and more controlled than that of his boss. “And then we can return, get rid of these interlopers - so you can be Queen of Omega once again.”

For an eternal heartbeat, Bray tensed, as he was sure Aria would not take it well, and lash out - and he would follow her, as he swore so long ago he would. Even into certain death, and beyond. Sanity prevailed, though - and with a cry of frustrated anger, Aria T’Loak, Queen of Omega, channeled her wrath against those who rose up against her and invaded her sanctum. The walls of Afterlife buckled as the vortex of biotic power roared within, gravity going insane within the confines of the club, crushing Blood Pack members and civilians alike, warping the building’s structure, tearing apart everything - and amidst the storm of unleashed power, Aria walked, her face a mask of cold contempt, while  behind, Tela strained to shield the rest of them from the Queen’s wrath while they made their way towards the ship and escape.

 

* * *

 

 

##  Location: various (17-24/07/2183)

The galactic community, still feeling the aftereffects of the Saren Crisis, was sent once again reeling when the events at Terra Nova became public knowledge. Alliance politicians and military leaders may have wished and tried to prevent the leaking, but even such persons knew the ultimate futility of those half-hearted efforts.

The blow to the SA warmachine, though by no means fatal, was still severe. The losses both in material and lives, however tragic, were dwarfed by the implications of how the batarians managed to pull off such an act. The internal uproar threatened to tear the Alliance apart, as the purges and witch hunts spun rapidly into being, then out of control, as the need for scapegoats threatened to overwhelm common sense.

Cults popped up seemingly overnight, prophets and demagogues proclaiming apocalyptic vision, exhorting the masses for seceding from the Council and turning inwards, for purging unbelieving heretics and incompetent traitors responsible for the loss of life, for submitting fully to the Council and ask for their help. These were, of course, the expected, controllable groups. Far more insidious were the slowly-worming congregations who now flexed their muscles in the halls of power, exerting far more subtle influence than previously credited - and unsurprisingly, their aim was towards the institutions and people specifically designated to combat their influence. 

The N7 Deltas and the AIS came under fire for not being able to prevent or predict the assault, or that the batarians would get their hands on tools powerful enough to pull off such a spectacular feat. They were also criticized for not containing the catastrophic reactor failures in time, thus resulting in galactic scrutiny on the previously well-kept secret of the Yutani-Yi reactors and their internal specifics. Simultaneously, that technology itself came under fire, for the glaringly obvious insanity and dangers involved, as so well demonstrated above Terra Nova. Talking heads, pundits, and experts alike ranted about a return to the days of fire and insanity a hundred years in the past, when the vanguard of humanity’s special forces fought to secure Terra itself from the depredations of the denizens of Irem and Leng, and the esoteric forces supporting those inhuman beasts. Of course, the incompetence of today’s relevant agencies was a result of them being co-opted by the last remnants of those dark cults and beings, a fact helped by the secretive and isolated nature of the institutions and operatives. Obviously, both the N7 Deltas and the AIS would need a closer, more open oversight, from upstanding citizens of unassailable morals and sanity. After all, humanity would not allow itself to be dragged back down into the Dark Age!

The military was harshly criticized for not responding quickly and decisively enough, for not wiping out the batarians years ago, for being so hidebound in rules and procedures that a dreadnought captain had to ask permission for firing on an asteroid that was a clear and present danger (nevermind that Captain Feige, like most sane people, was uncomfortable deploying C-type shells in a situation where their effects might have spread to the civilian populace). In the sake of fairness, other personnel were pilloried for not following due process and risking a substantial asset in hare-brained stunts (ignoring the fact that Captain Langley’s actions were found to be fully reasonable, had decidedly positive results, and were grounded in established emergency protocols usually confined to theoretical training scenarios for the sheer unlikelihood of them happening). And then there was the failure of ONI to consider as well - if the agency could not notice the batarian special forces moving in such scale, what good was it? After all, everyone was sure that the squints could not pull off such an operation without extensive and obvious preparations, and the ONI was in place to specifically monitor and predict such events.

Internally, Fleet Master Sheridan and Director Bergman were scrambling to find and plug the leaks and security risks, purging their organizations from deserving liabilities and useful assets alike amidst the public furor. Sure, both of them had more than enough sense to spirit away those subordinates they considered victims of circumstance - yet they did so to build their own powerbase. They were only human - and that showed in how the purges did seem to hit a fair number of known opponents of both in their respective organizations. Simultaneously, both battled for the public opinion as well, with Sheridan advocating a more militarized stance to deliver vengeance on the batarians and preempt such tragedies from occurring ever again, and Bergman opposing him, urging for caution and rebuilding. Interestingly, both of them had scathing opinions on those who wanted to secede from the Council; Sheridan argued that the other races had their own grudges against the batarians and humanity would be foolish to bleed alone when turians were just itching for an excuse to smash the Hegemony - while Bergman reasoned that the aid and support from the Council races were invaluable to rapidly recover from the severe wound dealt by the attack. Both also agreed, publicly and vocally, that to abandon the Council so soon would be a grave insult towards everyone who sacrificed their lives for the Alliance attaining the position on the Council.

Of course, there was also the matter of Cerberus. The supposedly black project gone wrong, those involved driven insane or simply just being allowed to let go of their inhibitions, to conduct an orchestra of terrorist acts and mayhem from suicide bombings and assassinations on Terra, to bombings on the Citadel, attacks on outlying colonies with WMDs (including blowing up a Yutani-Yi reactor), and random assaults against nonhumans as far as Ilium. While the existence of such a group did not entirely surprise people, the seemingly vast resources it had at its disposal had been a nasty shock. To be able to strike at so many locations practically simultaneously, with such numbers and high-tech equipment was more than enough to give birth to rumors about the organization not being so rogue as the SA government would say - and due to the circumstances, this was not a claim that could be easily dismissed. The Spectre Corps and STG alike wanted to get access to any investigation into Cerberus, to chase down names, rumored supporters, possibly co-opted agents, sympathetic personnel, equipment suppliers, and so forth. The Speer Administration had to play a very, very delicate game with the issue, as any otherwise valid security and confidentiality reasons were at risk of being flagged as simple obstruction while data and personnel is whitewashed. Still, the AIS was willing to cooperate, but that too raised concerned voices.

++++++

The fallout from the attack on Terra Nova was keenly felt on the Citadel as well. Councilor Udina considered himself lucky that his four peers were sane enough not to immediately capitalize on the Alliance’s plight, but he was well aware that the support received would have to be balanced in the future. Still, he considered it a good bargain, and argued incessantly for accepting the aid, brokering a number of comparatively minor yet prestigious concessions from various human companies, to preempt and offset the surely incoming little requests from the other races. Meanwhile, he also used every occasion to voice his opinion that while the batarians would have to be dealt with, ultimately, it was much more important to find out who was behind the whole atrocity - after all, not even batarians would be stupid enough not to realize that an act like this was nothing less than an act of war, and the Council would have to respond in kind.

The Spectres were ordered to ensure that nothing similar happened to the major Council shipyards and capitals; and at the same time, the agents had to delve into the background of the attack, to find connections, to drag the hidden player into the light so it could be eliminated. Despite being a unit composed of rather diverse individuals, the consensus among Spectres leaned towards somebody wanting to cause a war - as a diversion to something else. Perhaps others would have discounted these ideas as outlandish, yet the Saren Crisis clearly showed to the Spectres that at times even such insane-seeming scenarios were grounded in reality. 

Executor Pallin and Lictor Vakarian suddenly had their hands full with riots and violence against batarians, with a sudden influx of religious nutjobs preaching apocalyptic visions with frightening intensity and zeal, and with several quiet, barely-thwarted attempts at numerous important officials, up to and including Councilors Tevos and Udina. Nominally, these attacks were perpetrated by Cerberus, and on the surface, the assumption seemed correct. Yet both turians suspected that there was something else as well, a more disturbing aspect - namely, the Shadow Broker being involved. A discreet investigation made it clear that the known associates of the Broker Network were withdrawing from the Citadel quietly, unobtrusively, vanishing into thin air - or in a number of occasions, they turned up dead. Neither Garrus, nor Pallin knew whether this meant that the Broker was involved directly in the attack on Terra Nova and had turned against the Council, or if he was deposed, the deaths and disappearances merely a sign of the internal power struggle. Despite their differences, both turians decided to err on the side of caution, and opted for assuming the Broker having turned against them - with all the terrifying implications such a move would mean. 

Quietly, special STG, Blackwatch, Serrice Guard, and C-Sec operatives were dispatched under Spectre leadership to preempt some possible scandals the Broker could spring upon the influential public figures - yet everyone knew that this was, at best, a token effort. After all, nobody wanted to air their dirty laundry, and the governments of the Citadel races had several nasty, well-kept secrets - and now, all scrambled to secure them even further, to limit the damage the Broker could surely cause when he started using those secrets he was famous for hoarding.

++++++

On the far side of a balefully glowing mass relay, beyond a vast debris field of ancient spacecraft, the immense station was coming fully alive, the insectile inhabitants swarming over the numerous vessels, in preparation for the harvest. 

Their pawns had already secured a stronghold controlling access to the base, thus the General (or rather, the guiding intelligence behind it) decided on deploying and rousing the assets of the Black Arks, in addition to the ships designed for procuring biological material.

Soon, their time would come, and their master could finally feed and grow once more.

++++++

In a city of shadows, lies and treachery, a conclave of siblings, of power incarnate debated whether a more direct approach would be needed. So far, things were mostly in line with their aeons-old plans and prophecies, but with freedom in their sight, the volcanic leader argued for action, for finally unleashing their might, to take back their rightful dominion. He argued that the seals holding them back were the weakest yet, and if their sister was correct in her visions, this weakness would not last long, and they may not get another opportunity to get free for millennia - and they were all so very tired of waiting and hoping.

Still, the dangers of their ancient enemies noticing them, or even worse, following them to their shadowy domain was very carefully weighed. Risking freedom was one thing, but risking the species of their followers was another - none of them were really willing to test what would happen if their shorter-lived kin perished en masse. 

As a compromise, a scouting force would be dispatched - effective enough to intervene and tip the balance in the favorable direction, but small enough to hopefully pass beneath notice. The preparations began to deploy the flotilla, and the cautious optimism ran through the vast city, invigorating the denizens - and naturally, giving birth to countless schemes and ploys to take part in the expedition, or to stay away from it, and use the other’s absence to one’s benefit.

After all, the outside was surely vast and their rightful heirloom, but the important was the status now. The future was and would be taken care of by the guiding family.

++++++

On a plateau under a dead, black sun, a majestic figure stirred within the void-black pyramid as the cadavers impaled around to contain it came alive, hungrily questing for any trespasser, their warning screams echoing in the void and the higher dimensions alike. 

The being turned its visage towards the distant sky, its eyes half-lidded, mouth distorted into a vulture’s eager, malicious smile. The voice that came from its throat would have plunged any listener into the maelstrom of madness - especially when they realized the figure was laughing triumphantly. And why would it not? Everything was unfolding according to its design, and soon, it could once again step on stage - if it chose its mask right.

Then again, it mused, any one of its masks would be a correct choice for unleashing even more chaos and providing a welcome distraction from its boredom.


	6. Chapter 18

##  Lazarus Station, deep space (31/10/2183)

Miranda Lawson felt conflicted. On one hand, the past few months have allayed her suspicions about the young asari archeologist and her drell companion - in fact, she felt surprisingly comfortable working with the other woman, and she could certainly appreciate the rare flashes of desert-dry humor the drell sprang on them. On the other hand, Liara could be so infuriatingly naive and well-meaning at times that she wanted to scream from frustration. It would have been less of a problem if the asari was less intelligent, or more arrogant - in either case, Miranda could easily blame it on her species. But no, the damn woman just had to be smart and capable enough most of the time, to lull her into a false sense of security that she was working with someone on her own level, without the need for all the mind games Henry Lawson (and to an extent, even the Illusive Man) loved to play. And then, seemingly at the drop of a hat, Liara seemed to switch into a starry-eyed, clueless teenager (though in fairness, she was just that, never mind that chronologically she was three times Miranda’s age), especially when it came to certain people - or rather, people in general. In a way, Miranda envied that - her own upbringing (and she was using that term rather loosely) made her quite unable to be that positive about sentients in general, an attitude only enhanced by her service in ONI and the involvement with Cerberus.

Still, she mused, having Liara around was more than beneficial enough to offset the occasional annoyance. With the asari’s help, Miranda and her team of specialists managed to progress much faster with the reconstruction of Shepard, mind and body alike. Not that Miranda had doubts about their eventual success even without Liara’s presence, yet she would not deny that without her around, Project Lazarus may have skirted dangerously close to the optimistic deadline set by the Illusive Man. And considering the latest reports about the galactic events (or even just the reason why the young archeologist was here and not on Ilium), Miranda wanted to be done with this project as soon as possible. All her senses and instincts warned her that they and the galaxy were running out of time, and the Reapers were coming even earlier than estimated in Cerberus’ worst-case scenarios. 

And, she reminded herself with a grimace, not even those worst-case scenarios predicted her father turning on them so quickly and decisively - a fact that annoyed Miranda endlessly, seeing as she herself was involved in coming up with some of those scenarios, and she knew just what lurked behind the affable facade of Henry Lawson. Or rather, she thought she knew, as she shuddered remembering the creature visiting Minuteman Station. No, whatever her father may have become, it was not expected, and not even the Illusive Man could ferret out the reason and extent of the changes affecting the former minister - or, for that matter, his current whereabouts. Admittedly, there were a number of rather important investigations and hotspots that drained the remaining, meager resources of Cerberus, and Miranda was well aware that some of the external support (such as from Admiral Hackett or Kathmandu) would be cut off soon to avoid further endangering important remaining assets.

Still, she could console herself with the fact that her own project was amply funded - and that having access to Liara’s memories (or rather, the parts of Shepard’s psyche imprinted in the asari’s brain) made a lot of theoretical research and expensive equipment unnecessary. Even the related SR2 project was going well enough, but that was mainly due to Spectre Bau, Councilor Udina and Lictor Vakarian pulling strings quietly, and providing resources covertly - and for Urdnot Wrex to come up with a location that was rather low-priority for anyone on the lookout for a shipyard.

A wave of her hand banished the projections, and the changed display showed some of the major concerns they have been trying to deal with. She noted Thane’s report about getting rid of a Shadow Broker agent at the last supply run, and once again felt vindicated in taking in the dying drell assassin. Of course, anyone who went toe-to-toe with Kai Leng, and managed to survive basically unscathed would be an asset, but Thane’s background and skills were even more useful than she anticipated. Nevertheless, she concurred with his opinion that the Broker was actively looking for Cerberus assets in general, and Lazarus personnel in particular - and that meant a leak somewhere. She scowled. No matter how carefully they vetted their personnel, there was always someone willing or unlucky to be turned.

The research and intelligence projects were not doing well, it seemed - Chandana’s group has made little progress, their last few reports suspiciously devoid of any new insight, finding, or even uniqueness. With a shiver, she flagged that as something to be checked - hopefully, it was either just laziness on the scientist’s part (would not be the first time), or compromised comm systems, maybe a even a mole. The alternatives her mind was all too happy to picture were much, much worse. The excavation and reconstruction projects on Eden Prime were doing reasonably well, but there would be a need for someone trustworthy and knowledgeable to be present in person, as the initial findings were promising - the question was, who to send. Liara, naturally, would be an obvious choice, but she was too high-profile for that risk. Maybe the asari could provide some ideas, and Miranda would also check in with their contacts back on Terra to see if anyone was available - perhaps the Brysons could be employed?

The leader of Project Cerberus lost herself in the rather dismal picture painted by the reports, the  encroaching darkness threatening to swallow the few remaining flickers of light - and that was if the increasing internal struggle did not snuff them out earlier. She did not believe that Cerberus was alone in sensing the unseen hand manipulating the Blood Pack into a position of prominence, setting them up to conduct a campaign of domination and slaughter in the Terminus, encroaching mainly on human colonies, with Fehl Prime and its research and production facilities a likely priority target. Or the increase in Collector sightings, always associated with small outposts and colonies going dark - still outside the SA space proper, and only involving less than ten thousand people all told, but the implications were disquieting. Skirmishes alongside the batarian border becoming ever more frequent, as the SA Third Fleet was finally reoriented and the Council reinforcements arrived. Ominous silence from the vicinity of the Perseus Veil, with no probes or scouting missions returning intact, making it likely that the geth were also gearing up for war.

Miranda’s dark thoughts were interrupted by the chime of her door, and with a gesture, she shut down her screens, and turned towards her visitor. Liara was visibly nervous, tension radiating off her frame, worry clear in her eyes. 

“Miranda, it is time.”

The operative checked her internal chronometer, and decided not to argue about a few mere minutes. It would take them time to get to the ritual chamber and Liara tended to need comparatively longer to achieve the necessary mental state. So she nodded, and stepped out, leading the asari towards the depths of the station.

“I am still not comfortable with this ritual.” The asari’s voice was low, revulsion threading through it as she went on. “Especially the price.”

She might have continued, but Miranda stopped her with a raised hand and a glare.

“We are not having this discussion again just now, Liara. I respect your opinion, but trust me, there is no other, safer way of doing this.” She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head, and continued. “Or at least not without a handful of rather distinctive people around - and none of them could be brought here.”

“Why, Miranda? Surely the importance of this ritual and the potential benefits would outweigh the security and financial issues of arranging their travel, and … why are you laughing?”

“Were it so easy.” The human locked gazes with the asari, her eyes unyielding pools of cold, almost insane determination. “Those we can trust are either off the grid, dead, or worse. If not for your connection to Shepard, your past, and your complete inability to lie to me, you’d not be here either. Even so, I argued for not involving you in this particular step.”

“Why not?” The young asari’s eyes conveyed hurt and anger in equal measure.

“Because you are untrained, emotional, and have too many scruples for a stunt like this.” Miranda’s smile was a bitter one. “I do not doubt your willpower or determination, but...”

The elevator pinged, as they arrived to their destination floor. Thane was already there, finishing the last security check - he nodded towards the two women, before he left.

Out of habit, Miranda checked the wards and inscriptions, while Liara moved to the center, looking down on the capsule holding the empty, albeit highly upgraded shell of Shepard. She let the asari have a few extra moments - the last they could spare. And besides, Miranda could use the time to check on the rows of dreaming, sedated humans ringing the chamber. With a satisfied nod, she returned to the center to check on Shepard as well as Liara.

“Let us begin, then.”

The two women took their positions, and Miranda started chanting, as the temperature dropped, hoarfrost webbing across the pods, floor and walls. As usual, she felt detached from herself, watching dispassionately as her physical self swayed in the throes of the rite, the words of power from her lips hammering away at the thinning barrier between dimensions. She noted when the first of the sacrifices was snuffed out, and felt a distant worry at how early in the ritual it happened, and her sight swept over the hexagrammic wards again, to ensure that they were holding.

The closing roar of the imminent crossrip would have sent waves of power into the higher dimensions, with a fraction bleeding off into the materium, probably enough to damage the station after tearing apart everything in the chamber. She let out a breath as she realized the outer hexagon was holding, even though the dreamers were being drained faster than she hoped - and the excess power was redirected inwards, resonating against the veil of immaterium. Her voice rose into a crescendo, its echoes muffled by the wards to shield them from the senses of the predators from beyond.

Nameless colors bloomed with an orgasmic sigh in the center of the chamber, as the sacrifices howled in agony despite the sedatives, despite being asleep, as the touch of the immaterium caressed their souls with razor-sharp edges, peeling away memories, emotions, thoughts with a malevolent glee. Miranda glared at Liara when she felt her falter in revulsion for a moment, her own voice never missing a beat as the unsane power battered the walls of her self. 

The asari’s mouth was moving, forming words she should never have known, the voice of a male human echoing within the vortex they bore into the immaterium, the power of the incantation lighting a beacon for a specific soul, signalling and guiding and cajoling it back from the meaningless, immeasurable distance it had wandered (or been dragged off to? the thought was almost enough to make Miranda falter for a moment) - and then both women could hear and feel the seeking tendrils of something dark and uncaring questing for them as well as the spark they sought.

Liara’s eyes were pools of terror and agony, and Miranda was almost sorry for her, yet she could not help her, apart from risking a respectful nod at the asari’s determination, as she held together enough sanity to keep up her crooning siren song that throbbed with power and emotions alike, its intensity just as potent as Miranda and the Illusive Man suspected…

The operative focused on holding the ritual together, shutting out the tortured, ecstatic screams echoing in her mind, the whispering voices seeking to worm inside from the other side, the unearthly cold, the eye-searing swirl of nameless colors writhing in the air - and then a soft, faint golden hue laced the veins of power in her sight, small sparks of golden power burned away shadows and whispers alike. The soundless siren chant of the asari became a compelling crescendo of golden power, demanding the attention, the completion, the return of its departed part.

In the center of the summoning chamber, the once empty shell of Alexander Shepard opened his eyes for the first time in months, and for a moment, Miranda could have sworn she could see the outlines of a warding symbol burning in those eyes - then Liara fell to her knees, her song wavering at the oily, malevolent presence leering at them from beyond, before Miranda cut off the portal with a gurgling cry, and fell to her knees, blood flowing from her mouth and eyes alike.

* * *

 

##  Citadel, Widow system (31/10/2183)

Garrus Vakarian cursed his luck, his upbringing, his superior, and most of all, his current predicament. Sure, he had to acknowledge that the scenery was nice, as he flashed a grin while his eyes lingered on the trim waist and boldly sweeping frills of a turian female, but still - to be stuck in a concert hall, of all things, while he could do so much more outside was galling. And that cloaca Pallin had of course been reasonable, and only slightly gloating, pointing out that as a Lictor, it was kind of Garrus’ duty to attend functions like this to ensure the security of the VIPs under C-Sec’s care. And these days, there were few more important persons than the incumbent Councillors, three of whom were in attendance … and he just had to play his part in organizing the close security details, instead of being on sniper duty, or even better, off-station chasing after some rather promising leads. At this point, he would have even preferred the still-forming anti-Reaper task force the Hierarchy was setting up. It’s not like his own presence would have mattered here anyway, if someone decided to make trouble - if the fact that Jondum Bau was heading the security detail was not enough to deter a would-be attacker, said person was likely either howling mad, or better armed that  _ Sovereign  _ was. Garrus sighed, as he stood to once more perform a security check, the last before the concert began - again he wondered why Tevos, Udina, and Sparatus chose to attend an opera, of all things.

Of course, the whole thing was organized and touted as a charity event to show the unity and goodwill of the Council races (especially since about half of the people involved were turians and asari, the other half humans), make some backstage deals, and drum up public support (as well as gently mug the wealthy) for the rebuilding efforts - for some reason, the general populace was still rather leery about the increased war preparations. Garrus could understand why some events were still kept behind the scenes, but it still rankled. At least closely working with the Councillors convinced him that those five had at least enough sanity, common sense, and backbone to start the quiet preparations, instead of simply ignoring the warning signs. Though, he mused, with  _ Sovereign _ and the batarian attack on Terra Nova, only the blind or wilfully ignorant could deny the coming problems - at least, amongst those who were in power. 

Garrus checked his omnitool quietly, seeing that both the C-Sec and STG security personnel were at their proper locations, and the escape routes were still clear - sure, there would be no reason to use them (apart from if and when the Councillors wanted to leave quietly, without having to meet the media), but it never hurt to be prepared … and it was his job, anyway. People were trickling back to their seats after the break, ready to enjoy the second act. Nobody strayed to closed-off locations, the weapon detectors did not register a single incident, even the C-Sec channels he checked for the  station-wide situation showed a calm, quiet night, a true rarity on the Citadel - but he supposed it went fairly well with the somewhat bland story of the opera; though he would admit that for an allegedly 400-year old piece, it got several star systems correct, and the score sounded almost tailor-made for turian instruments, and the asari voices of the choir were quite effective in creating the proper atmosphere. Then again, Garrus mused, it was likely that the original play was overhauled for a multi-species audience; it would not be the first time an old piece of art was used as a prop to make a political statement.

The second act changed the mood rather quickly and harshly, and Garrus saw that he was not the only person in the audience to react. The previous politely indifferent mood was shifting along with the swiftly darkening themes of the opera, the audience becoming increasingly agitated, with wildly varying reactions, from simple discomfort to contented smiling to barely-suppressed aggression or nausea. Garrus’ instincts screamed danger, as he felt something caressing his mind, gently prying for an entry, beckoning him to just let go of the discipline and morals of his people, and revert back to what his ancestors were, to maim, to rend, to violate... 

The soft chime of an incoming voice connection interrupted his inner turmoil, and he blink-clicked the acceptance before he tensed at the expression on Bau’s face.

“Vakarian, get the Council out.” The salarian Spectre’s eye twitched involuntarily, and Garrus saw the tell-tale signs of strain on his face. “AURORA sources verified that play is extremely dangerous; after extraction of VIPs, we must stop the performance.”

“On it, Bau.” The detective’s only warnings were a blur at the edge of his vision, and a tingling from a small trinket he carried around since Ilos. Still, that fraction of a second was enough of a warning, and he sent the attacking security officer flying with a throw, taking care to dislocate the other turian’s arm while at it. A quick glance to take in the situation in the VIP box, and Garrus wanted to curse himself for not noticing sooner how bad the situation escalated. 

Sparatus was flaring his mandibles, his talons digging into the armrests of his seat, obviously struggling against the influence. Udina was gasping for air, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes wild and hands trembling. Even Tevos, always the picture of calmness and serenity, had her eyes closed, her face a mask of turmoil. An asari guard and the other turian were eyeing each other, their desires all too apparent from their body language. One of the humans was slumped down at her post, blood trickling from her eyes, a look of agonising pleasure on her face. The other asari and the human male were keeping it together, though barely, as both struggled to keep sane and coherent; the Huntress already moving towards the door, her shotgun readied, steady in her hands, small flickers of biotic energy sparking off her.

“Councilors, we are leaving!” Garrus raised his voice, pitching it to the cadence used by turian drill instructors for centuries. Sparatus hissed at him, his posture ready to pounce, before with a visible effort of will, he stepped in the direction Garrus indicated, refocusing his aggression, following the asari Huntress, a gun in his hand. Udina tottered after him, a hand to his temple as he fought for every step with dogged determination not to slow the others down. Tevos followed the other two Councilors with a serene grace, her biotics haloing her form as she prepared to shield them in case of an attack. The human bodyguard followed, his whole bearing calmer and more focused as he sealed off his hardsuit, and Garrus frowned at that. Was there some reagent in the air, maybe, something that the scanners missed? But that would have to wait, as he hurried out, a last glance confirming that in the auditorium, desire and instincts seemed to overpower common sense and sanity, letting chaos reign.

The few dozen meters to the nearest exit felt a longer, more draining trek than slogging through Ilos, battling Saren’s forces. While Garrus could and certainly would thank the spirits for not encountering anyone (a fact that sent his cop instincts screaming), the sounds and voices were hard to ignore, despite the audiofilters built into his suit and comm unit. The clearest, even over the weirdly rhythmic, atonal music of the turian band was the lead singer and the asari choir melding their voices in a harmony of malevolent pleasure, liberating pain, ecstatic betrayal, a plethora of contradictory emotions and feelings, drilling into the brain and soul of everyone present, making even the Huntress and Tevos stumble. Sparatus was distracting himself by running his talons along the walls, the scratching noise a grating counterpoint to the lurid music streaming from beyond. Udina was swaying on his feet, the human bodyguard supporting him, yet the Councilor still managed to totter and stumble towards the exit. The biotic coronas of both asari were flickering in response to their emotions, their eyes and whole posture indicating how close they were to simply let go, allow their minds to meld with whatever caused all this. And amidst it all, Garrus wondered why he himself was not more severely affected - especially since Sparatus, unreasonable but tough bastard that he was, had so obviously suffered the ill effects.

At least after those eternal-seeming few minutes, they were outside, beyond the containment barriers erected by C-Sec, and Garrus could offload his recovering VIPs to the Special Response team and Pallin, before Bau caught up to him, the Spectre’s armor scuffed and bloodied. The salarian slotted a new ammo block into his pistol, before he turned to Garrus.

“Vakarian, with me. Need to go back, stop performers before they reach third act.”

“Come on, Spectre, that’s taking being a critic a bit too far.” Despite his words, Garrus was already gesturing to a C-Sec officer, who tossed him his sniper rifle. “Besides, not that I doubt your ability to handle yourself in smaller scuffles, but the two of us might be not enough.” His face turned grim, as his voice dropped to a deeper rumble. “Especially not if we want to keep anyone in there alive.”

The Spectre’s answer almost stopped the turian in his tracks.

“Killing them would be merciful.” A swift check of his omnitool, then Bau shook his head with disgust. “Will send details later. For now, only focus on taking out the band and the choir, along with the singer.  Make no mistake, Vakarian - if we fail to put them down, the whole Citadel will regret it.” 

Garrus chuckled bitterly, as the two of them reached the door.

“Why not blow up the place, then?” He frowned, his visor sliding into place, lining up his favorite song. “Come to think of it, why only the two of us?”

“Remember Feros, Vakarian. You were there, even though from orbit. This similar in scope, according to AURORA expert. And this is your job, Lictor.” Bau slowly blinked. “Also, trusted, capable personnel in short supply.” A smirk flashed so fast, Garrus wasn’t sure he saw it. “But, one has to work with what one has. Now suit up, we are going inside.”

Despite the situation, the immediate grim future, Garrus could not stop a chuckle, as the first riffs of the turian anthem echoed in his ears, while the hoarfrost-limned door irised open before them, the yawning maw of an eldritch beast.

“Well then, try to keep up, oldtimer!”

The inside of the once-pristine concert hall was a pulsating, cloying cavalcade of chaos, as things that were once sentient people cavorted within the fraying boundaries of sanity, decency, and material realm, the music of the spheres building towards a triumphant peak that would surely echo across the higher dimensions, clawing and battering at the minds of  those still not succumbing fully to its siren song. The darkness of the void that suffused the building was only lit by the distant, impossible stars, and the spastic, random glimmers from the guttering lights when the physical world tried to reassert itself for a few brief moments. For a moment, Garrus felt a vertigo, as if he stepped out to the void, falling, before he anchored himself in reality, unaware of the faint, eldritch symbol of an eye within a pentagram burning with emerald flames under his armor. He sighted down at the stage, his rangefinder feeding him absolutely nonsensical data, calculating the distance between two meters to six kilometres and more.

The salarian looked at him questioningly, as Garrus lowered the rifle, the Spectre’s mouth moving, but only garbled, grating sounds were audible from the comm unit. Still, the meaning was clear enough, and at Garrus’ headshake, Bau just nodded, slowly exhaled, before plunging forward, racing into the void - or rather, down towards the stage, zigzagging between the melted, mewling, melding once-sentient piles of former people, the C-Sec detective following a half-step behind. 

Garrus was never sure how the two of them gotten from their entry point to the stage, or the time elapsed since they stepped into the concert hall. Based on how well Bau was holding up, it must have been reasonably short, but his senses and instruments indicated hours have elapsed, and kilometres covered. The whispering, fragmented shapes of darkness, the haunting piping, the frothing, suffocating waves of intruding protoplasmic matter, the deranged noises from the still-alive audience formed a nightmarish amalgam of impressions in Garrus’ mind, only fragmentary images standing out in stark relief. 

Bau, stabbing an omniblade into the single head of a crazed thing composed of several partially-merged humans. An asari looming from the darkness, a seductive, malevolent grin on her lips, eyes swirling black, her corona blazing, before she falls back, as his shot tears away half her head. Bau, vanishing under a mound of flesh and exoskeleton. The Spectre bursting forth, omniblade and gun blazing, armor dented and scorched. The eruption of blood as Garrus sends a bullet through the eye of the lead singer, her mouth opening impossibly wide, as the tormented air strains from the sounds coming from the darkness within. Claws, hands, tentacles grabbing for them both, giving way when sliced with the omniblade or hit by a gun. Musical instruments and singers howling in thwarted fury and madness as the inferno charges set them alight or the storm of bullets rips into them, muting the atonal, crescendoing choir of insanity.

The turian came back to his senses as the concert hall reasserted itself, the burnt-out, wrecked rows of chairs, half-melted, bullet-ridden, gnawed-on bodies an image straight out of bad holovids or slaver-hit Terminus colonies. The turian felt exhausted, just like the panting Spectre across him. The salarian took a look around, before sitting down, his hands fiddling with the omnitool.

“Good job, Vakarian.”

Garrus flared his mandibles in a vicious gesture, as he turned towards Bau.

“Yes, a mighty fine job massacring these lunatics! Spirits, how could something like this slip by us, Bau? What are we going to do to prevent this from repeating?” The sniper’s voice dropped to a dangerous, predatory growl. “And what do we do to the bastard responsible for this? Can AURORA and the Spectre network find him?”

The salarian’s answer was a cold, small smile.

* * *

 

##  Mahavid, Aysur system (31/10/2018)

The geth emissary-platform, designated Legion by Major Pieterzoon, was once again devoting a substantial amount of its processing capabilities to analyze the recent events on the asteroid, to corroborate or disprove the seemingly outlandish implications of the T-GES crew of the station. On the surface, one could easily and comfortably claim that it was mere space dementia caused by the claustrophobic environment, monotony, lack of contact, a thousand other, minor, everyday factors - and even the fact that the asari on-station seemed affected could have been caused by simply being overwhelmed by the emotional imbalances of the humans, melding with one forcibly or voluntarily, some inherent mental instability or neurochemical issue. 

Problems with this theory were quite numerous, however. The miner’s behavior and demeanor, the eclectic and wildly varied data gathering they have been doing, their reactions when the professor deployed that n-dimensional, multifrequency shield of his (and the consensus of Legion again had to forcibly reprioritize to avoid contemplating the intricacies of that seemingly-impossible barrier that defied conventional logic along with the rules and laws of physical reality). The consensus of Legion’s constituent runtimes was that the alien artifact found in the depths of the asteroid was either somehow exerting an influence on the miners, following pre-programmed tasks and behavior patterns, enforcing those on the sentients within its control radius, or that it acted as a beacon/amplifier similar to FTL comm buoys, allowing for its creator to direct its influence through it, suborning the unwary sentients in proximity of the beacon.

Legion tasked several dozens of its runtimes to assess the technological implications and resource needs for creating such a beacon, and the available data, even allowing for black projects and typical leaps of inspiration made by organics, all pointed at such things being at least a few centuries in the future. Thus, the geth runtimes reasoned it was either extragalactic (unlikely; the Caleston Rift was too far from the galactic rim for that) or precursor tech. The latter option also seemed to be more likely due to the fact that the professor’s demeanor indicated familiarity with the artifact - though Legion would freely admit that it was not an expert at reading humans; but then again, the emissary’s runtimes were nowhere near to a consensus on what exactly Professor Yildirim was. And ever since coming on board, the geth made it a point to observe the enigmatic being very closely, even if it meant putting up with the occasional off-color joke from Major Pieterzoon, who seemed to quietly enjoy the byplay.

The cluster of runtimes tasked with monitoring the status of Dr. Garneau. The man was still slightly disoriented and confused, but his mental state was improving rapidly, and Legion estimated that he would regain full command of his mental faculties within a few more minutes. A quick check confirmed that the jury-rigged scanning/monitoring tool the geth platform was constructing would be ready for operation at that time. 

A number of runtimes were running the steps of the plan again, looking for possible faults, points of failure, dangers and limitations, yet no matter how many times Legion ran the scenario, or how many variables the emissary attempted to account for, it always concluded with insufficient data. There were simply no means for the geth runtimes to fathom the precise capabilities of the professor’s powers, especially since said abilities seemed to defy the projected limits of organics as well as the laws of the universe; or at least, said abilities could not be quantified and understood within current scientific limitations. The current debate amongst the runtimes was about whether to classify them as abilities inherent to a yet-unknown precursor race of beings (given the few implications dropped by its companions about past events and their personal experiences, the option had merit), or to borrow from a human author, and label such phenomena as magic, pending reclassification once the proper scientific understanding is reached (due to the unconventional range and working methods of these phenomenon, this assertion also had merit). Reaching a consensus was a distant possibility, so Legion’s runtimes tended to assign a lower priority for this particular contemplative task.

As the internal timer ticked down, Legion assigned higher priority and more runtimes to checking the quality of its work, simultaneously increasing the attention it gave to the three organics as well. It was quite clear that Major Pieterzoon was not exactly thrilled with the upcoming happenings, but his body language and demeanor made it clear that he would go along with the plan, without further objections or covert sabotage due to moral reasons. Alex Garneau was worried, afraid - to be expected, since he would bear the brunt of the possible dangers, despite the assurance of the two other organics. Though given that Garneau was clearly remembering the Saren Crisis, and the geth’s role in it, Legion could understand why he was not happy about having to rely on a geth’s jury-rigged tool to monitor his vitals and brain - especially after getting free of the mind-tampering effects of a precursor artifact.

The countdown reached zero, and the geth platform turned its ocular sensor towards the professor who hovered by the strangely shimmering blue-ish crystal sphere, a slight distortion of the air the only outward sign of the barrier he used to cut off the artifact from whatever was on the other side. Legion’s sensors went to the highest possible sensitivity, its runtimes prioritizing the in-depth monitoring as well as the detailed documentation of the experiment to come. 

“We are ready to start.”

At the synthetized voice, Garneau swallowed, nodded, before the professor made a gesture, and the distortion from around the sphere vanished, the colors within started swirling in a hypnotic pattern of soothing blue. Legion mimicked a human gesture as it raised an eyeflap.

“Detecting a pseudo-QEC thread. Attempting to trace it.” A minuscule pause, as the platform checked its sensory data. “Subject’s brainwave patterns within normal limits.”

Pieterzoon snorted in amusement as he studied the displays, and Garneau, despite the the situation, also managed a small grin that dropped off along with the temperature in the ship.

“I feel so cold...” The archeologist shivered. “It’s dark, can’t...”  

The man’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he might have fallen if not for Pieterzoon grabbing him, keeping his head turned towards the slowly pulsating sphere on whose surface the blue patterns shifted in yet-unpredictable patterns. Garneau’s head snapped up, his mouth slowly opening and closing, the brain activity monitor going berserk.

“ **The darkness must not be breached!** ”

A quick glance between the two organics, as Legion indicated that while erratic, Garneau’s brain activity was still in the safe zone.

“ **Give up the artifact. You will not take what is mine!** ”

+++ NEITHER WILL YOU. +++

A rapid query confirmed that all runtimes have experienced the answer simultaneously, without having to reroute it from the audio receptors of the platform. Legion raised an eyeflap, as it filed away the information for a later analysis.

“ **Turn back. Do not pursue me. You will find only death.** ”

The smell of ozone wafted in the air, heralding a storm, as lightning flickered in the depths of Munir Yildirim’s eyes.

+++ YOU HAVE COWERED LONG ENOUGH. IT IS TIME TO FACE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. AND YOU WILL, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER. +++

The sensors went berserk as an energy spike howled across the QEC link, shattering the artifact, cutting the connection, hurling fragments with deadly speed - only to melt into motes of golden light, and for a brief moment, it was as if the usually warm, brown eyes of Professor Munir Yildirim were pools of molten violence straining to be unleashed.


	7. Chapter 19

##  Fehl Prime (12/11/2183)

In the aftermath of the attack on Terra Nova, the SA had naturally upped the existing security measures for all important (and even most of the second-tier) colonies and outposts; the demands on manpower, ships, and construction materials stretching the budget, the reserves, and the people themselves to the breaking point (and in some cases, beyond). The witch hunt against the scapegoats for the batarian attack’s success did not help, either. The constant high readiness state, the frequent drills, the jumping at shadows, and the gearing up for a retaliatory strike (or, to borrow from the ever-diplomatic Fleet Master, “the campaign to finally erase those four-eyed bastards from the galaxy”) were leaving the troops tired physically and emotionally, much more prone to make mistakes. Those who had the training and endurance, as well as the responsibility to prevent such mistakes, like the N7s (Deltas included), were run ragged trying to prevent major breakdowns - a losing fight, made even worse by the government’s attempts at getting more everyday control over these few remaining special assets, after putting both ONI and the AIS under direct, close senatorial oversight.

The Alliance’s cyberwarfare experts worked round the clock to prevent similar breakdowns as at Terra Nova, rebuffing assistance from the Council in general, and the salarians and quarians in particular; the unspoken assertion was that the STG simply wanted to build in some convenient backdoors, while the quarians were just touted as a strawman for the STG and the Spectres. No, the Alliance had enough experts on their own, and they would figure out and deploy the proper countermeasures. Naturally, this being a project with government oversight, both internal military and external industrial lobbying was working against the project - otherwise, the cybersecurity experts could certainly have created the proper updates, plugged the backdoors, built in some more traps and countermeasures, likely implemented better intrusion detection algorithms. Sure, time was a scarce resource, but the SA’s experts did their level best to uphold and exceed the standards set by people like Turing or Ishikawa.

Of course, these reactions were to a degree, predictable to military and intelligence personnel across the galaxy. Those more insightful into the human psyche could even glimpse and speculate correctly on the backroom politicking and power struggles as well. But there were very, very few beings on the galactic scene who had, as of the previous few months, a vested interest in keeping the SA off-balance, weakened - while remaining hidden in shadows, using only catspaws, information, the occasional assassination, but mostly money. And, as the events within the Alliance proceeded reasonably within the forecasts of the desired scenario, even the ever-paranoid network of agents grew just a tad more lax - and that, coupled with the admittedly well-earned confidence in their own abilities, resulted in just a few oversights.

Simple things, really, nothing major, nothing too overt or covert. Yet those mistakes were made, and the time to pay for those minor oversights was approaching fast. And, as so often happens, the payment would be extracted in blood. Well, blood and credibility - after all, the effectiveness and reach of the Broker Network was a well-known fact, and to even consider that the agents in that made mistakes with such catastrophic results was laughable. Unless, of course, the Broker had been playing both sides of the conflict.

++++++

The attack on Fehl Prime should have been a relative cakewalk for Archuk’s Blood Pack forces, especially since with the chaotic deployments and hectic schedules of the SA forces, the regular garrison had been shrunk down to a mere full-strength brigade, instead of the usual reinforced divisions. Despite the vocal opposition of Fleet Master Sheridan, naval assets were also reduced, leaving only a cruiser squadron with frigate support, the carrier task force having been redirected to join up with the Fourth Fleet along the Hegemony’s border. The only reinforcements remaining on-planet were five N-level squads, to provide security for the research center and the Prothean communication relay.

Agents of the Broker had once again done an admirable job of gathering data and ensuring that the attacking force would not be detected in time, and the naval patrol would be out of position for an interception of the Blood Pack fleet at any rate. The ground-to-space defenses were quietly manipulated, the targeting software modified to ignore specific transponder codes - which, coincidentally, belonged to a number of vessels acquired when Omega fell to Garm and his lieutenants. To further hedge their bets, the vessels were then retrofitted with ECM technology provided by the bug-like associates of the Broker; claiming (and confirming with a few live-fire tests) that these would provide adequate protection against Council ships at least long enough that ramming or boarding could become feasible. 

Of course, the Blood Pack was more interested in actually occupying (or at the very least, razing and sacking) the colony, and for that, ground troops were needed, in no small numbers. After all, even with the understrength military defenders, this was a human colony in the Terminus Systems, so likely even the “regular” citizens were combat-capable, not to mention that it would be inexcusable stupidity to underestimate the proficiency and bravery of the SA marines. No, when the operation was planned, Warleader Archuk insisted on a significant numerical superiority - and with the new allies, the Blood Pack certainly was not lacking in numbers.

Thus, when the troop transports landed, a howling green tide of barely-contained krorks flooded from the dark depths of the ships, brandishing crude slugthrowers, krogan-manufactured guns and heavy melee weapons. The sound erupting from the thousands of throats was a primal call to fight, to war, to slaughter, the very air seeming to crackle with green-tinged energy as the horde charged the defences of the colony. Hundreds of vorcha accompanied them, to provide fire support with heavy weapons and flamers, while the dozens of krogan, the true Blood Pack members, who were supposed to lead and direct the mindless warbeasts, were too caught up in their own blood rage, almost all of them forgetting about little things like plans, tactics, or strategy. Some older, more experienced krogan mercenaries managed to keep enough control to at least direct the tidal wave of hulking brutes towards the defenders, certain in the knowledge that not even turian soldiers, never mind Alliance marines could hold the line against such numbers and violence.

Warleader Archuk was, for a brief moment, content that his achievement in soon razing the colony would finally get him the recognition as a proper Battlemaster. 

And then, it all went wrong for the attackers.

While the colony itself may have been protected by a single brigade, the Shadow Broker’s operatives failed to mention that these marines were equipped with the best weaponry and armor produced by the SA, instead of the cheap gear usually assigned to garrison units, that they were reinforced with squads of N-level soldiers, and commanded by the Heroine of Elysium herself - and unlike during the Skyllian Blitz, Irina Pavlichenko had time to plan her defences. 

Automated sentry turrets popped up from beneath the causeways, their fire cutting lines into the onrushing horde. Snipers joined in, concentrating on those wielding heavy weapons and visible leaders. Kinetic barriers snapped up, sparks of electricity arcing from their surface, sending attackers spasming uncontrollably or outright frying them as the reactors were spooled up to a higher output. Electronic noise flooded the comm channels of the Blood Pack, forcing them to rely on more crude methods of communication or to increase the signal strength of their equipment - and the latter was gleefully rewarded by the defenders with artillery strikes. Biotic explosions and singularities tore into the mass of krorks, flinging bodies (or parts of them) with careless abandon. Techmines engaged under the feet of the attackers, the explosions scything down dozens of mercenaries, or turning them into burning torches.

For just a moment, the attacking wave was stopped, milling in confusion at the unexpected onslaught - and then, a biotic blur slammed into a blood-mad, howling krogan brute exhorting his troops, and the battlefield echoed with the wild laughter of Tela Vasir, as her blue-limned fist tore off the mercenary’s head, her shotgun tearing a path of ruin into the press of green bodies. Then she was gone again in a blur, racing amidst the Blood Pack, always a step before the impending death, taunting, enraging the bloodthirsty beasts, yet appealing to their primal instincts, challenging and slaughtering all who tried to stand before her. 

Elsewhere on the battlefield, a turian clad in power armor flickered into existence for a brief moment, the built-in omniblade of the armor bisecting a roaring krork before burning a path across the throat of another. With a flare of jumpjets, the turian was off, snapping off a shot that exploded the fuel tank of a vorcha flamethrower. Before the mercenaries could react, the cloaking field flickered, and only a very faint haze of distorted air remained where Nihlus Kryik had been previously, the Spectre already gone to reap a bloody tally elsewhere.

Warleader Archuk, understandably furious, but still confident that the situation could be turned around (not an unreasonable assumption - after all, the Blood Pack still had an immense numerical advantage), attempted to contact his fleet, to provide orbital support; or if necessary, simply bombard the colony.

Unfortunately for him, the vessels that ferried his forces to Fehl Prime, and broke orbit to deal with the two SA cruisers speeding towards the planet were rather preoccupied, when the SSV  _ Everest  _ and her task force emerged from behind the secondary moon of Fehl Prime. Captain Langley did not waste her time with platitudes or demands for surrender, and the dreadnought’s positron cannon lit up with murderous fury, the incandescent beam cleaving the largest Blood Pack cruiser apart, before the fighters from the  _ Tsiolkovsky  _ and her sister swarmed over the rag-tag ships, overwhelming their point defense systems with sheer weight of fire and numbers.

Despite the rapid destruction, one of the Blood Pack ships managed to punch through the SA jamming, and send out a distress call. With the pseudo-motion of an FTL jump, three immense shapes appeared over Fehl Prime - seemingly dreadnought-sized asteroids with a disturbingly organic signature, despite the metallic superstructure protruding from the hulls.

++++++

Aboard the  _ Everest _ , Captain Langley glared at her tactical plot, her mind racing through the sketchy details the Navy had on these bastards - basically the few sensor recordings of the  _ Normandy  _ and the  _ Orizaba _ . With a growl, she forced down her instinctual reaction, her voice pure ice as she gave orders - and silently swore to whatever gods were watching that if the insane plan did not work, she would tear apart the idiot who came up with it using her bare hands. And she just hoped that she would not lose too many of her people to the feint.

Following her command, the SA task force moved to disengage at flank speed, the ship patterns and outbound trajectories suggesting a rattled command, a desire to avoid action even at the cost of sacrificing a number of fighters, who were screening the withdrawal of the capital ships. The Captain’s mouth was a hard, thin line, both her real and artificial eye burning as she saw icon after icon disappearing from the plot. At the very least, the Collectors seemed to be content in sending her ships packing, with only a single rock-like vessel keeping an eye on them, following them with a sedate but implacable speed, while the other two were heading towards the colony.

For all the costs she and her pilots would have to bear, the insane plan just might work.

++++++

Warleader Archuk could not and would not contain the gleeful, bloodthirsty laughter as he watched the display relayed from the ragged survivors from orbit. The arrival of the three bug ships had obviously badly rattled the humans, the SA vessels scrambling to withdraw - obviously, they did not want to tangle with ships that tore their precious Spectre’s vessel apart without any problems. As two of the hulking ships descended towards the colony, shimmering kinetic barriers deflecting most of the fire from the still-functional AA and GTS batteries; and even the shots that penetrated did not seem to do more than pockmark the rocklike hulls with new craters here and there.

Shortly before landing, both ships vomited forth black clouds, that drifted towards the colony, the faint buzzing of insectile wings audible as the swarms came closer, larger shapes emerging from the ships in the distance, as the bugs themselves came out to play.

Now, he could finally see for himself how well these creepy bastards handled themselves in a fight, if they were truly worthy of the Blood Pack’s support - or if Garm was just a blinded fool to throw his lot in with them.

++++++

The SA marines were prepared for quite a lot of different situations, and with the N-level operatives attached to the companies, they did manage to stand up quite well to the rather surprising and seemingly overwhelming Blood Pack assault, and have, in fact, managed to start pushing them back; all this with relatively few casualties and confusion. The first minute of the Collector attack, despite the careful planning and preparation, still almost overwhelmed them. 

The humans did expect their enemies to have flying units. The powerful, portable particle beams were also no surprise, even if their efficiency against kinetic barriers was better than worst-case scenarios estimated. What nobody could expect was the paralyzing effect of the seeker swarms, made even worse by military-grade kinetic barriers presenting absolutely no obstacle to them, as many soldiers found out just a bit too late - and the Blood Pack were more than eager to capitalize on the sudden wavering of the defenders, as the mercenaries surged forward in a howling, fight-crazed tide, tearing apart or simply gunning down paralyzed soldiers.

If not for the biotics and the N7 Deltas on site, the chaotic, confused first minute may well have escalated into a panicked rout, elite marine status be damned. When the biotic barriers proved to hold off the swarms, Pavlichenko’s specialists managed to come up with an insane, dangerous, but at least working solution to the swarms; apparently, a jury-rigged reconfiguration of the kinetic barrier generators to dump electricity over the hardsuit’s outer surface was enough to prevent the nanomachines to remain functional enough to paralyze - with the drawback that it deprived the person from the protection offered by the kinetic barrier.

Still, there was no hesitation in the voice of Irina Pavlichenko when she gave the command for her troops to do the adaptation; after all, even without the barriers, they were well-trained, experienced veterans, and now, they had a fighting chance again. 

That was all the marines needed - and once again, the tides of roaring mercenaries advancing under the strangely flickering, somehow muted greenish halo, were met with precise, disciplined fire from the defenders, stopping the savage horde cold, even without artillery support. Sure, more and more marines fell down, hardsuits ruptured by unimpeded biotic fields, boiled alive by direct inferno grenade hits, limbs or body parts torn off by usually-deflected bullets, beaten down and torn apart by howling, green-skinned beasts drunk on slaughter, cut apart by yellow-tinged particle beams fired from disturbingly organic guns. Despite all the disadvantages, seemingly heedless of the sharply decreased chances of their survival, the marines fought, the marines bled, the marines died - but above all else, the marines held the line.

++++++

Irina threw herself into cover, the flying bastard’s particle beam cutting into plasteel barely a few inches from her. A quick check to ensure that her rifle’s heatsink has cooled down enough, before she leaned out just enough, and the high-powered shot from the oversized Widow turned the upper body of the hovering, too-slow Collector into a geyser of organic paste. She ducked and rolled to avoid the incoming fire from the other bugs hunting her, racing just a bit before the chasing beams, as she maglocked her sniper rifle, and unshipped her Valkyrie, thumbing the ammo selector, then took down another pursuer with two well-placed short bursts of disruptor rounds.

She cursed silently, as she raced onwards, the battlemap in her mind getting more and more outdated as she was forced to prioritize acting as a soldier instead of being a commander - while the Blood Pack was uncaring enough, the Collectors were quick to identify officers and specialists, especially Deltas like her, for some reason. Before she was forced to quit her command center, the reports from all over the colony painted the same picture; while the marines managed to fight the mercenaries and bugs to a precarious standstill, casualties were mounting, and with the Collectors dispatching dedicated hunter-killer teams to take down the commanders, it would be only a matter of time before her forces were overwhelmed.

She thought about transferring command to Nihlus, as the turian did have enough experience to lead a force this size, but her last communication with him indicated that both him and Tela were also being hunted. Perhaps if she dropped off the comm channels, ceased broadcasting and coordinating her troops on the run, she could give her pursuers the slip. In any other circumstances, or even an hour or two earlier, she would have done so, the brief loss of oversight and control not presenting a major issue. Here and now, though, she did not want to risk that; not when her soldiers were barely keeping it together as it was.

Her brief musing was interrupted when her suit sensors alerted her to something - a moment later, her Widow was in her hands, the scope magnifying the closing object, and she cursed. The thing looked like a Mako-sized bug, which would have been bad enough on its own, but the telltale shimmering of a kinetic barrier and the deep furrow its particle beam burned into the ground (when not carving through plasteel, body armor, or IFV hull) as it fired on the defenders made it just that much worse - and, her luck being what it was, the thing brought at least four of its friends along. She stiffened for a heartbeat, the rangefinder and her battlemap confirming her suspicion, before she raced off, a snapshot sending a concussive round through the eye of a too-eager Collector. Blink-clicking a comm channel open, she fired off a warning along with a data packet to the two Spectres and her Delta squadleaders.

As she suspected, the leading bug-tank flew straight towards her, shrugging off the sparse weapons fire  thrown at it. She smiled viciously, as she braced herself, the Widow again unshipping  in her hands. A quick check on the ammo selection, a minor adjustment to the ammo block usage, then the oversized sniper rifle roared its fury, the two shots only separated by the merest fraction of a second, just long enough for switching the ammo type. The disrupter round fired first brought down the bug’s kinetic barrier with a crackle of electricity, just in time for the inferno round to burn through the thick armor plating.

The bug-tank opened its front and screeched, the air distorting from the pained howl of the technorganic creature, as it dropped down, its impact throwing up clouds of dirt, the barrier around it shimmering into existence again. With a half-bitten curse, Irina  _ moved _ . 

As usual, time slowed down for her, as she raced closer, zigzagging ahead of the particle beams chasing her, the maw of the technorganic tank yawning open in a vengeful howl echoed by the scores of skulls within its depths, its high-powered cannon blazing with incandescent light, ready to cleave her apart. 

She lazily swayed aside from the beam, her assault rifle unfolding in her left hand, sending bursts of disruptor rounds chipping away the thing’s barrier as Irina danced between the shots from her pursuers, moving to keep the living tank between them, before pressing the muzzle of the Widow to an armored joint. The inferno round tore off the limb, unbalancing the huge Collector for less than a second - but that was more than enough for an N7. Maglocking her Valkyrie again, her omniblade ignited, biting deep into another leg joint, before a kick sent the halfway-torn limb flying. With a vicious, predatory grin, she circled, speeding up even more, her movements a blur as her implants kicked into overdrive. 

The Collector opened its maw again, to roar or spit a beam of death at her, she did not care - she unclipped and primed a brace of grenades with a lightning-fast motion, hurling them into the gullet of the biomechanical tank, already circling towards its back while the grenades were in the air, her Widow booming its fury, the inferno round melting its way through the thing’s armor - and then her grenades went off within the belly of the beast.

The explosion sent her flying, and she barely managed to hang on to her sniper rifle despite the rough landing against a half-melted Mako. Pain flared in her body as even reinforced bones cracked with the impact, yet she forced herself to her feet, command channel open once again as she pelted towards cover, issuing commands.

++++++

Aboard the  _ Everest _ , Captain Langley closed her eyes for a moment in relief as the signal from the surface arrived. Then, with a smile that belonged to a predator of the oceanic depths, she entered new commands, her task force turning back towards Fehl Prime and accelerating, the ship’s lights flickering as the barrier configuration changed.

The Collector cruiser moved to a proper intercept course with a slow confidence despite being technically outnumbered, the firing chamber of its particle cannon igniting with baleful yellow light.

Then, with the pseudomotion of an FTL jump, Admiral Vipsania’s task force dropped in-system, and practically immediately a blood-red beam of molten metal accelerated to an appreciable fraction of lightspeed lanced out from the  _ Stalwart _ , carving a deep furrow into the Collector ship’s hull.

++++++

The arrival of the turian task force marked the final stages of the battle of Fehl Prime. In orbit, the  _ Stalwart  _ and  _ Erebus  _ tore the surviving few Blood Pack ships apart, only the Collector cruiser managing to put up effective resistance - though that would be understating it. Both Council dreadnoughts suffered serious damage, the new cyclonic barriers not enough to deter the particle beams of the enemy, while the positron cannon and the Thanix cannon were not powerful enough to easily penetrate the focused defenses of the Collector cruiser. One-on-one, both Vipsania and Langley would have been hard pressed to get a stalemate against the level of firepower and endurance the rocklike ship brought to bear. With the two of them working in concert, bringing their task forces to bear, victory was only a matter of time. Sadly, they did not have that in abundance, as the other two Collector cruisers, after extracting the surviving ground forces, were lifting up from the atmosphere, their kinetic barriers shimmering under the barrage of AA and GTS fire, explosions pockmarking their hulls. The battered third asteroid-ship started pulling away, concentrating only on evasion and defense, hoping that the Council vessels would be deterred by the incoming reinforcements. The two dreadnoughts did break off - after their parting barrage scored direct hits on the Collector cruiser’s drive, sending the rocklike vessel tumbling. The  _ Tsiolkovsky  _ followed it, her fighters and bombers harassing the bugs, keeping them occupied, trying to prevent jury-rigged repairs.

The two ships lifting out from the gravity well were met by a crimson beam of hyperaccelerated molten metal, the beam tearing into the leading ship, punching through its barrier. The cruiser would have survived the hit without major issues - if not for the three C-type torpedoes slamming into its forefront with split-second timing. Howling, giggling vortices of white unlight blossomed along the hull, tentacles burrowing into metal, rock, and organic materials alike, all beginning to turn into a dull, flaking grey dust - before the second shot from the Thanix cannon impacted. High in the stratosphere of Fehl Prime, a yawning maelstrom of riotous, unnameable colors blossomed into existence for a fraction of a second, the barrier between the higher dimensions collapsing on itself, the brief whirlpool of unreality imploding with a thunderous detonation, the shockwave sending people and vehicles flying down at the colony, its echoes clawing into the minds of the crewmembers aboard the two dreadnoughts, breaking discipline, composure, sanity, turning dozens into drooling vegetables or slavering animals to be put down. Of the two Collector cruisers, not a trace remained - and a minute later, the harassed, limping third vessel exploded as well, taking several SA fighters with it.

Hours later, in the ruined, burnt-out husk of the command center, two turians, two humans, and an asari were grimly contemplating a stack of datapads scattered below a flickering holoscreen. Normally, none of the five would have advocated such a hasty meeting, especially given the severity of the situation and the delicate matters involved - yet precisely for that reason, all of them were agreed that the faster they did the debriefing and analysis, the quicker the Council could respond. And, in their estimates, time was even more of the essence than they thought before the battle.

“Irina, how bad are the casualties?” Nihlus’ voice was tired, with an undercurrent of emotion that few humans would have believed from a turian.

“Worst I have seen.” The blonde woman’s voice was calm, professional, only the occasional facial tick betraying her composure. “More than two thousand of my people are dead, with another five hundred or so too badly wounded to ever fight again.” She chuckled, a mirthless, grim sound. “Or really, to walk or live again, honestly. I have close to a thousand seriously wounded, leaving me with maybe two-three hundred effectives. From the two N7 squads, five people survived, only one of them Delta-level; the Collectors hunted them specifically, more aggressively than even officers. The colony defenses are shot to hell, and we are lucky that the civilian casualties are not much worse than what my marines lost. I haven’t checked the records yet, but I suspect the only SA operation with worse casualty numbers was Torfan.”

The table’s edge creaked under Captain Langley’s bionic hand, but before she could open her mouth, Tela spoke up.

“Don’t blame yourself, Irina.” Her eyes glowed still with the excitement of battle, but her voice carried the experience of centuries spent on the field of battle. “If anything, you should be proud of your people - I can name only a handful of other units and commanders who could have pulled off something like this, especially after the bug’s little paralyzing trick.”

“I concur with Spectre Vasir.” Langley’s voice was harsh, the words clipped, driven by barely-restrained fury. “Nevertheless, the Captain will be publicly vilified by the media and some higher-ups inside the SA. After all, with her achievements at Elysium, this should have been a cakewalk for her.” The redhead closed her eyes, the table creaking under her fingers again. “She will be a scapegoat, just like Shepard was after Torfan. Nobody will care about the sketchy intel, the enemy forces, the unknown tricks. And with the uproar against the N7s, she’ll be thrown to the wolves, forced to ...” With widening eyes, the naval captain took a step backwards, her eyes narrowing at the blonde N7, a disbelieving smirk on her face.

“Is there something you might want to share, Captain Langley?” There was a trace of amusement in Admiral Vipsania’s voice, as her mandibles flared in a grin. The redhead glared at the turian, before she answered, her voice cold.

“While I do acknowledge the need for operational secrecy, I do not appreciate being kept in the dark when I have to sacrifice my people. I am aware that this was primarily an attempt at rooting out the Shadow Broker’s agents and doing some weapons testing,”  she inclined her head towards the turian admiral “but there should have been more forces groundside, with possibly mech and armor support, air assets, the works. And if that’s obvious to me, then Fleet Master Sheridan, or someone like Colonel Pavlichenko would not miss such details.” She took a deep breath, visibly fighting to keep calm. “That fact, in addition to the practically inevitable political shitstorm the SA government will create leads me to suspect that the whole operation had some other, even more secretive goal - and now that we are done here, I want to know what that is.” Human and bionic eye glowing alike, she stared at the other four. “I want to know why so many of my people had to die. I want to know why you sacrificed over three thousand marines; surely not simply for intel and weapon testing. And apart from that, I can only see this whole thing being good for is to drag down Colonel Pavlichenko, at a time when the SA would desperately need her best people.”

Langley’s face contorted into a menacing scowl as she glared at the quietly, one might say, smugly grinning foursome around the table. Nihlus spoke up, his mandibles still twitching with amusement, but his voice and gaze were both serious.

“Ask yourself, Captain Langley - with the political climate back on Earth being what it is, with the witch hunts against officers who have certain talents; what do you think, how long the Colonel would have lasted, before she was … disappeared?”

Langley shot him a furious glare, a scathing retort on her tongue, then she controlled herself with a visible effort, sighed, and conceded the Spectre’s point with a nod. The turian went on.

“So, she came up with this whole idea, and your Fleet Master agreed - and so did the head of the Public Security Section.”

“Wait, what? Why would that skulking asshole be involved?”

Tela took over.

“Because he is already in on the whole thing, my dear.” Amused blue eyes met the human’s glare, and the asari went on. “I am willing to drag you into this cloak-and-dagger stuff, if only for the extra benefits someone like you would bring” - her gaze wandered appreciatively over the redhead, as Nihlus groaned and Pavlichenko facepalmed with an exasperated sigh. Tela’s voice became serious, her whole posture shifting from lazy sensuality to predatory, and none of them missed the small flash of her omnitool as a privacy field went up, or the barely-visible control gesture of a biotic barrier. “But if you do want to join us, there will be no way back, not until this whole Reaper thing of Shepard either ends with a victory parade of the Council forces, or with him committed to an asylum for paranoid delusions.”

Pavlichenko shook her head, a small smile on her lips.

“The second one might happen regardless of the Reapers, Tela. Alex does have a tendency for coming across as insane.”

Captain Langley’s eyes narrowed at the blonde woman’s choice of words, her mind racing, rumors flitting across her memory, and she fought to suppress a wide grin, yet could not keep it entirely from her voice.

“Well, if that’s how things are, count me in.”

* * *

 

##  Citadel, Widow system (14/11/2183)

Donnel Udina was not a happy man these days. Just when he has climbed to what he considered the peak of his career, the place where he could finally achieve something for humanity, the universe seemed to conspire against him. The current, idiotic administration back on Terra had all the tact of a drunken elephant in a china shop, and were too enamored of their own rhetorics. Sure, people like Shepard have amply proven that humanity was more than ready to be one of the key players in the galaxy, but how in the void did that equal to claims of dominance or threats of isolationism was beyond him. If anything, it proved his long-standing suspicion that the main difference between people like him and the current government was that he could learn from the past - and was determined to use any and all means necessary to prevent the idiots back home from pushing the Alliance to the path that brought only ruin and suffering on the batarians … or the more insidious trap the turians fell into, back when they joined the Council. No, he would gladly lie, cheat, manipulate, and even contemplate violent actions to see the SA as one of the key pillars of the Citadel Council, a strong star nation in its own right, one that could forge an independent destiny but chose to build communities. And right now, he needed to do some rather risky dealing to keep the prestige and position humanity has earned - before the SA government decided to yank him out from here, replacing him with a yes-man or a zealot. He silently prayed that his four colleagues were as reasonable as he had estimated.

His office door chimed, and with a practiced smile, he rose to greet the other four Council members, motioning them towards the conference area, quietly checking his omnitool to ensure that the privacy measures he discussed with Bau were indeed in place - and then as he sat down, he placed a small, innocuous trinket to the middle of the coffee table, suppressing a grimace as the thing pricked his hand, greedily drinking his blood. Valern nodded his head just a fraction, the others did not seem to react or notice the byplay, simply discarding the small item as a curio, instead of a useful artifact. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Was he really going to do this?

“Thank you for coming on such a short notice.” Again, he swallowed, struggled with the words for a moment. “I am sure that all of you are quite familiar with the internal strife that is ongoing in the Systems Alliance. Fringe groups, megacorps, religious cults, political parties, borderline terrorist organizations all try to maneuver for more power - and most of them, or at least the loudest ones, all call for humanity to withdraw from the Council. Now, we all know that it would be the height of folly for the SA to do just that. To prevent that disastrous action, or at least mitigate its effects, a certain cabal within the SA has reached out to me, to contact you in turn.”

Sparatus tilted his head, his mandibles flaring.

“What I fail to understand, Councilor, is why your Fleet Master Sheridan is not taking more proactive measures to contain the turmoil. From what I know of him and his status within your military, he could easily do it.”

“No encouraging of military coups for other star nations, Sparatus.” Tevos’ voice was light, even as her eyes narrowed at the turian and Udina. “Not everyone idolizes the military mindset as much as you do, and it does have drawbacks and blind spots as well. There’s a reason the five of us play this game of checks and balances.”

“Any other day, I would concede, Tevos - but this time, considering the looming crisis, I’m honestly advocating just that. For all their issues, the SA military leaders are at the very least competent and can be relied upon to act rationally.”

“I disagree. The current crisis in the SA is not as bad as what my people endured three centuries ago, and objectively, a strong, competent and most of all, aggressive military dictatorship might be a more serious threat to our equilibrium than the current civilian government.” Zaal’koris interjected. “Though I can certainly understand why you would advocate for it in the short run.” He nodded towards Sparatus, the gesture and his voice alike conveying the respect for his colleague.

“Also disagree. Coup messy, wastes resources, chiefly time. Already, military personnel might be compromised.” A sharp exhale from Valern, then he went on. “STG would capitalize on such chaos, Collectors and their backers would definitely do the same. Also, do not forget other methods of influencing; remember fate of Benezia and Saren.”

Sparatus glared at Valern, but nodded, accepting his point. Udina cleared his throat, and spoke again.

“In the past few months, the most blatant and horrific atrocities, along with the loudest anti-Council and xenophobic messages, were all claimed to originate from an organization that called itself Cerberus. What some of you might not know is that originally, Cerberus had close ties to the highest levels of Alliance military - and worked as a black ops group.” He raised a hand to stop the inevitable protests he could see forming from Sparatus and Zaal’koris. “To give you an idea what they were earlier involved in - they were instrumental in the stealth frigate project, as well as Project Aurora.” Valern nodded satisfiedly at that, Tevos raised an eyebrow.

“So, I presume this is where you tell us what prompted the rather drastic change in direction, then.” Even through the modulator, the voice of Zaal’koris was exceedingly dry, and Udina shot him an unamused glare before triggering his omnitool, and the image of a human male in expensive clothing appeared before them.

“Some of you might recognize Henry Lawson, former Secretary of Education, one of the main movers behind Cerberus.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Councilors, but isn’t Lawson dead?” Sparatus directed his attention at both Udina and Valern, then his gaze sharpened when neither of them showed affirmation or surprise. “So, once again, the STG keeps a potentially disastrous bit of choice information secret.” His voice sounded tired. “One of these days, your people will seal your own fate with this scheming and trickery.”

“Necessary work. Also, survival of Lawson and connection to Cerberus deemed as SA internal issue earlier. Had no projections that showed relevance to Council-level issues, particularly not on this scale.”

“At any rate, while him faking his death and disappearing may not have been a problem in itself, intelligence assets provided information that indicates he has been subverted by something or someone, and that is why he betrayed the SA and Cerberus.” Udina’s voice carried an undercurrent of barely-restrained fury. “That crazy bastard conspires to torch the SA, spits on what Cerberus originally stood for, and thinks he can make us dance to his tune as well. And damn him, but he was doing a rather good job of it.”

“What changed, Donnel? And what intelligence assets are you talking about?” This was not the mellow, serene voice Tevos mostly employed; the distant fury of the onrushing tide, the wrath of a woman scorned echoed within, the power making even Valern flinch for a moment. Udina swallowed again, before fiddling with his omnitool once more, and the holoscreen changed, showing another human male in expensive clothing. The man on screen nodded towards them, and took a drag of the cigarette he had in his hand. Valern’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, before a grin flashed across his face, as he nodded, confirming some inner thought. Sparatus flared his mandibles in a predatory reflex, recognition and fury in his glare.

“A good day to you, Councilors. Glad to see some old friends around.”

“Get to the point and tell me why I shouldn’t tear out your arm and beat you to death with it.” The turian’s voice sounded level, but the other four knew him well enough to spot the harmonics beneath. The man on the holoscreen puffed once more from his cigarette, leaned back.

“For the same reason the Turian Hierarchy as a whole was not eviscerated thanks to the actions of Saren. Just like him, Lawson was a trusted asset, who turned against us.” He touched a control, and four omnitools chimed with a request for incoming data transfer. “I can provide you with the relevant data about how deeply he subverted Cerberus, and why I consider a minority of us still reliable, still working towards a sane goal. Councilor Udina has already seen the data, and has verified it via the AIS and N7 Deltas.” A puff of smoke, a bitter smile. “Well, as much as anything can be verified by them nowadays - though they are still mostly loyal to the SA.”

Valern was already busy typing, retasking STG assets, while Zaal’koris got busy attempting to trace the connection. Tevos, meanwhile, locked eyes with the human.

“What do you want?” Her voice was calm, measured again.

“Cooperation. Those of us who are still loyal to the ideal Cerberus represents will not stand aside while an opportunistic madman with delusions of grandeur destroys all that has been built by Humanity, and turns back the clock for our race.” His eyes seemed to glow with a cold blue light that pierced the puff of smoke. “We have fought long and hard enough for a Council membership - to throw that aside, to spit on those who died for it, is not something that I will allow.” His voice was becoming even colder, laced with a tightly-leashed undercurrent of wrath. “The Reapers are coming, and even together, we may not have much of a chance - but separately, they will grind us to nothing. And Councilors, I’m not sure if Udina has mentioned it to you just yet, but us humans have a tendency not to go down without a fight.”

Sparatus nodded, the gesture grudging but sincere.

“Fine words, but for the moment, these are just that. Prove your sincerity and intentions now, not with some data packet we may spend days, weeks trying to chase down to prove.” His voice was challenging, and the man on the screen smirked, his hand manipulating something out of view, and the screen changed.

“Those are not plans for a military ship.” The voice of Zaal’koris was intrigued. “The scale and shape is all wrong for that - and that is not a drive core configuration I have ever seen.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing behind his faceplate. “For that matter, that reactor output curve is also interesting; not even a Yutani-Yi reactor compares.” 

“Correct, Councilor - this is not a warship, this is what my people came up with for insurance.” A puff of smoke, a glint of humor in the blue eyes. “Of course, most of this is still theoretical, as we did not yet approach the relevant scientists - but with the Council’s backing, this could turn into a multi-racial project that would make the turian-human cooperation for the Normandy comparable to a schoolyard project.” 

“Why call it insurance?” Tevos mused, before Zaal’koris cut in, files scrolling rapidly on his omnitool, his voice disbelieving.

“Is this the real aim behind the Andromeda Initiative?” Udina sighed at that, Valern’s eyes widened perceptibly, Sparatus hissed, and Tevos nodded in understanding.

“You would have us flee, then? Run like cowards, leaving all under our care for whatever preys on them from the darkness of the void?” The turian’s voice was too calm, his whole body completely motionless.

“No.” The man lit another cigarette. “Isn’t it a soldier’s motto to hope for the best but make plans for the worst? The Initiative is what we could come up with for the absolute worst-case scenario. At the very least, it would be enough for a few survivors.”

The sharp-dressed man smirked, leaned back, his hand tapping at the armrest.

“And since you do not seem to be convinced by words, perhaps this footage will be enough. Do note the timestamp.”

On the surface, there was nothing too remarkable about it - a human male going through some biotic exercises and martial arts katas with a young asari. Nothing the five Councilors have not seen before. But then Udina hissed, his eyes widening in recognition - just when Tevos chuckled, a small smile on her lips. Valern’s eyes goggled from his head, and even Zaal’koris and Sparatus were grinning with disbelief. After all, it was not everyday that they could witness someone seemingly coming back from the dead.

“How?” Udina was not sure who voiced the question; he was too busy worrying about the implications - and the answer, delivered in a distant voice from behind the puff of smoke, was anything but reassuring.

“ _ It is not dead which can eternal lie, yet in this strange aeon even He may die. _ ”

* * *

 

##  Eden Prime (06/12/2183)

As usual, events got kicked off with a small, almost overlooked detail. If not for Liara’s love of all things Prothean, and her brief stint as an information broker (and no, the countless hours she spent trawling for patterns buried in the data did not count as intelligence analysis, at least in her opinion), she might have missed it entirely - or at least, it would have been too late. Even so, the short, preliminary report might have slipped under her eyes, if not for the two names attached to it. Admittedly, she did not know Sara Ryder very well, having only met the human woman only once or twice, but she was familiar with Treeya Nuwani - after all, not many maidens were considering her as a mentor. Thus, her finely-honed archeologist instincts screamed at her, urging Liara not to dismiss the report as a fake or a lure; with one of the people involved, she may have been correct in those assumptions, but with both? No, this had to have something genuine behind it. And it’s not like Eden Prime had no connection to the Protheans. So, in quite short order, she brought the whole matter to the Illusive Man, and was pleasantly surprised how little convincing she had to do to get the funding and approval for the trip.

The hardest thing was to leave Shepard behind for the time being. While the Spectre was healing rather swiftly, both she and Miranda agreed with the Illusive Man to keep the operative in reserve until he’s fully recovered and was once more at peak efficiency. Not to mention the sheer psychological effects his return would generate - that was not something that should be wasted on a mere archeological dig. The head of Cerberus also mentioned that a proper method of transformation, worthy of a Spectre, was under construction, and he was looking forward to Shepard taking it for a  _ simple shakedown run _ . The resulting explosion of profanity and threats from the operative were only barely quelled by the concentrated efforts of Liara and Miranda.

Privately, she was simultaneously glad and worried about spending time apart from him. It would give both of them time to maybe figure out how exactly they should behave when in each other’s company, as the awkward dancing around was tiring … and unfulfilling. Still, Liara was not entirely sure how she felt about him - or how the Spectre thought about her. Certainly, she had a unique insight into his mind, his personality, and with melds being what they were, he likely had an equally good impression of her. Yet, perhaps that was the most damning aspect - after all, she could give a rather long list why anyone could and would fall for the Spectre … but when it came to herself, well, the few entries were not even worthy of compiling into a list. Still, even a very slim chance was more than Liara had ever contemplated, so maybe once she was finished with this dig, she’d have to sit down with Shepard, and talk.

With a mental shake, she turned back towards her work and instruments. The ruined complex unearthed during the reconstruction efforts seemed to be massive, easily on par with the one on Ilos, and Liara silently hoped that here, she would find something more substantial about Protheans, or, Goddess willing, a working stasis capsule (or more). Though she suspected this was a childish hope, even Vigil had to contend with energy issues, there was precious little chance of a mostly-destroyed site housing working stasis tech. On the other hand, she theorized (with Sara and Treeya agreeing) that the destruction of the complex may give them some more clues about the enemy they faced, as the site was dated very close to the end of the Prothean cycle. So, the small team practically relocated inside the complex, devoting their waking moments to unlocking whatever secrets may linger within.

Honestly, Liara enjoyed herself immensely - here she was, doing what she loved, in good company, and for a very worthy end goal, at that. She came to enjoy very much the relentless optimism and energy of Treeya, the practical perspective of Sara, and she even appreciated the few pointers she herself received from a certain cigarette-smoking man about data and pattern analysis. All told, Liara felt that they were progressing quite well, getting minor results, and mapping the complex - which, in their estimates, would have housed tens of thousands of Protheans … but what stasis capsules they found were destroyed by something millennia ago. Sara theorized that the unknown assailants (she did not fully buy into the Reaper hypothesis, not yet) fought their way inside, and triggered some kind of reaction, probably a reactor overload, that resulted in a powerful neutron bombardment sterilizing the site.

Of course, like all too many good things in Liara’s life recently, it had come to an abrupt end.

++++++

The traffic controller of the spaceport gulped as the Justicar left her ship, and walked through the small corridor, until she stood before them. Even though she was alone, and he had a dozen people standing guard, he knew that they could not have a chance should she choose to turn on them - while he had seen asari commandos (well, Eclipse sisters), N-level soldiers, and even a Spectre, this asari moved with a deadly, sensual grace and fluidity that made all look like rank amateurs. He tried to tear his gaze from the woman, lest she end him for being an impertinent pervert, but with the figure-hugging commando armor, it was extremely hard not to watch - and he swallowed, when those disturbing gaze rested upon him. The asari smiled at him, a thing of bemused acceptance, sheer, intoxicating sensuality, and heart-stopping menace all at once. Her voice caressed his whole being, making it very difficult to concentrate enough to answer coherently, instead of falling to his knees and worshipping the incarnated goddess standing before him. And when she departed for the archeological dig, the whole world seemed drab, empty, soulless.

++++++

The first sign was a distant, prickling feeling, a tang of the incoming storm on the tongue and skin; the closeness of a raised, active biotic corona. 

None of the three archeologists payed any attention to it, engrossed as they were in opening the latest in a long line of stasis chambers - and with all of them being biotics, they naturally ascribed the phenomenon as the understandable excitement causing erratic fluctuations in their control over their abilities.

The second was a drop in temperature, the damp chillness worming its way under their clothing, seeping into limbs, blood vessels, neurons - understandable, as there was no climate control, and they were pretty deep within the complex. And besides, the trio was too absorbed in studying the instruments, not daring to believe the readouts, not ready to accept their immense luck.

The third and final sign was the low, throaty chuckle that seemed to reverberate from every corner and shadow, sending tendrils of dread and sensual excitement burrowing into the minds of the three archeologists.

Unhurried, measured steps came closer, delightful, wicked menace echoing along the tapping beat, as Liara, Treeya, and Sara were paralyzed with fear, anticipation, and indecision for a few moments. The shadows seemed to deepen, a very faint, sweet odor permeating the air, and the steps reached the access point of the stasis chamber. A pair of pale blue eyes seemed to ignite in the darkness, a gleaming white, predatory smile sent shivers of arousal and terror along the spines of the trio, then the stranger spoke.

“Liara T’Soni, scion of Benezia, chaser of childish fantasies, meddler in forbidden things - the Goddess calls you to account for your failures.” The cruel delight and cold menace in the voice was so at odds with the serenity Justicars were renowned for. “Beg for mercy, repent for your misdeeds, and there just might be clemency for you, ignorant child.”

The smile sharpened, the temperature dropped further, lines of hoarfrost spiralling away from the unknown asari, her curvaceous figure outlined with the harsh glow of an igniting biotic corona, her eyes swirling to pools of inviting, warmly suffocating darkness, her mind caressing the consciousness of the three others, whispering sweet threats, cruel suggestions, sensual promises.

“Goddess help us…” Treeya’s voice trembled, her whole body shivering uncontrollably. “An Ardat-Yakshi...”

The hiss of an unfolding pistol broke the standoff, then Sara screamed, a biotic field enveloping and crushing her hand, before tossing her to the side, her head hitting the wall with a sickening crack. Another control gesture almost pinned Liara in place with a stasis field, and before she could do more than evade, the chamber echoed with the pained howl of Treeya, as she clutched her head, her eyes swirling pools of darkness.

Perhaps a year earlier, Liara would have frozen in terror and indecision at seeing a malice from asari legends come to life and attack her friends. Perhaps she would have fallen prey to the unnatural aura of the creature.

But compared to Sovereign, or the horrors she had glimpsed in Shepard’s mind, this was a pale imitation, a deluded, insane thing only fit to be put down.

Her corona ignited, and with a shout, she unleashed her power. The Ardat-Yakshi glided away from the wave of crushing biotic force, detonated the throw field with one of her own, shrugged off the stasis - then her composure and smirking aloofness distorted into a hateful grimace when a pair of singularities yanked her off the floor, breaking off her connection to Treeya, the young asari dropping into a sobbing, twitching heap.

Before Liara could capitalize on the vulnerability of the monster, the Ardat-Yakshi’s biotic field pulsed, detonating both singularities, with Liara barely managing to shield herself and her companions. Mocking laughter echoed in the chamber, the cruel sound caressing the soul of the young asari with a sensual touch.

Her eyes widened as she took in the creature floating before her. While the Ardat-Yakshi’s biotic corona was still alight, that was not what kept her in the air - instead, wings of shadows and whispering voices emanated from its back, pulsing to the beat of an unnatural heart, tendrils of the nightmarish stuff scenting the air, questing for prey, for pleasure… The beast raised a blue-wreathed hand, then the chamber was filled once again with the sound of biotic fields extinguishing one another with thunderous impacts, and it was all Liara could do to ward off the biotic assaults hurled at her. 

In a way, the barrage of varied telekinetic manipulations, singularities, warp fields, and stasis traps were calming and usual - she had seen and endured them often, whether in combat or during sparring; and after having fought at the side of an N7 Delta and a krogan Battlemaster, she had a fair amount of proficiency in evading and countering them. What she never expected, not even after seeing legends come to life, were the insidious assaults on her senses and mind. The worming, tempting whispers to simply lay down and quit fighting. The sensual siren song calling for her to submit to the other, to open her mind, heart and body for the Ardat-Yakshi to use. The chains of futility and dread attempting to weigh her down. Tendrils of doubt and jealousy aiming to pierce her mind, to distort her memories into hateful caricatures.

Liara’s face twisted into a mask of hate, as she looked up at the smirking, floating monster. Words came to her then, welling up from the depths of her mind, demanding release, promising retribution and a proper conveying of her feelings toward the Ardat-Yakshi. Words in a language that she had never studied herself, but instead has inherited with a careless meld from a man she had so much to thank for. Words of a language that she had used before, saw their effectiveness with her own eyes - and felt the price in her soul. Yet, here, now, she felt that it was fitting that she react so.

The mocking, disdaining smirk of the Ardat-Yakshi was wiped off by the first grating, unhuman syllables that tore themselves from the young asari’s throat, echoing in the chamber and the depths of the creature’s soul. For so long, it considered herself an apex predator, a queen of darkness and power - and yet for all her centuries of wickedness, of power-crazed orgies of sensuality and destruction, she felt terrified once more. The unsane words tore into her deepest being, flensed her soul, triggered instincts more befitting a prey animal. Masking her fear with rage, she hurled her power at the maiden with the glowing blue eyes. 

A vortex of power and debris spun into being around the floating monster, as she tore off inert pods to hurl them at her foe, only to be thwarted by a biotic pulse, stopped with a lift field, or turned into nothingness with a word. Tentacles of shadows and emotions speared the maiden, and the Ardat-Yakshi screamed when the insane gibbering burned them away. She thought to crush her rival’s insensate companions, but her attempts were punished with a shout of rage that threw her across the chamber’s wall - and what’s worse, she could feel a deep yearning, a calling, a closing hunger from somewhere … and she felt that this was coming for her. With a shout of effort, she unleashed her biotics once again, and for a moment, the depths of the ruined Prothean complex shone with a harsh blue light - then an explosion rocked the ruins, and all went black.

When Liara regained consciousness, her only company was the catatonic Treeya and the comatose Sara, leaving her hoping that it was all a nightmare, even as the tell-tale taste of blood in her mouth, along with the burning sensation of a biotic overuse were all pointing to the contrary. She staggered over to the wrecked instruments, called for medical assistance - then, before she once again fell into darkness, she allowed herself a moment of relief as one particular stasis pod was still appearing to be functional and intact.

The Illusive Man and Shepard would both be proud, she thought.


	8. Chapter 20

##  Aite, Typhon system (24/12/2183)

It was one of the most worrying and simultaneously most hopeful events the emissary had witnessed since it ventured out from the Perseus Veil. Admittedly, the two strange companions who took it in were more welcoming than even the most optimistic projections suggested beforehand, but it would have been exceedingly unwise to base any kind of further analysis or forecast on them - after all, those two were very, very far from conventional humanity. Still, their continued course generated a positive feedback in the majority of the runtimes composing Legion - in a way, the consensus was that its constituents were experiencing the geth equivalent of hope.

Of course, there was still no consensus about how and why the  _ Argo  _ moved in such random directions; the technology behind Major Pieterzoon’s compass beyond the understanding of the geth runtimes. A poll conducted during an earlier period discarded the idea that the two organics were playing an elaborate prank on Legion. Neither the platform’s built-in sensors, nor the  _ Argo _ ’s highly sophisticated equipment was able to pick up any kind of radiation or energy being transmitted, received, or produced by it - but then again, the selfsame instruments did not register anything out of the ordinary whenever Professor Yildirim employed abilities beyond what could be classified as extremely powerful biotics. The data gathering, while not yielding results, was still ongoing, and Legion’s runtimes were forming quite a number of hypotheses about the source and implications of these unexplainable events - indeed, that started already at the first contact.

Assigning a lower priority to that line of thought, Legion focused once again on the immediate vicinity. The presence of deactivated geth platforms, along with corrupted geth runtimes was not a surprise, considering the nominal task of the facility they gleaned from the data banks. The consensus among the emissary’s runtimes was that, while unfortunate, this was a logical and arguably necessary step on part of the humans, especially in light of the actions taken by the heretics during the Saren Crisis. The worrisome factor was the presence of technology beyond the current projected capabilities of both humans and heretic geth, yet clearly influencing both organics and synthetics in a corruptive, addictive way. The limited, cursory analysis Legion was able to perform on such pieces of archeotech showed similarity with the promised upgrades suggested by Nazara-Giver-of-Future, but were at the very least an order of magnitude more sophisticated and effective. A more in-depth examination may have yielded more reliable, more precise estimates, but the emissary concurred with its organic companions about the possible dangers presented by such an endeavour without taking precautions. Thus, the findings were recorded, with a small number of runtimes dedicated to extrapolate and theorize based on the available information, providing the results at a later juncture.

Not surprisingly, the humans did not limit their invasive, in-depth research to geth platforms, as several mutilated bodies of varied age and gender could attest to it, with log entries conveying the examination processes, surgeries, and the seemingly inevitable breakdowns in minute detail. Unsurprisingly, when revealed, such data (or rather, the means by which it was procured) evoked an appropriate emotional reaction from Major Pieterzoon, and even Professor Yildirim displayed emotion - and just like above Mahavid, all runtimes reported sensing the same simulated experience, along with the sharp drop in temperature.

The ostensibly Cerberus-ran complex designated as Atlas Station was now quiet, only two others present apart from Legion and its companions - a man designated as Doctor Gavin Archer, head researcher of the facility, and the final test subject, David Archer; according to the logs, the younger brother of the researcher. 

Eminently, neither the Major nor the Professor were content with the fact that David was alive, and both took exception at the degree to which he had been modified cybernetically - or rather, to the methods and particulars involved in the cyberization process. The available data pointed at surprisingly invasive surgeries, compounded by emotional neglect and a morally dubious way of obtaining consent for performing them. Legion’s first hypothesis was that arguably abusing the family connection and blood relation was why both its companions were displaying such anger towards Doctor Archer. 

While that organic viewpoint was useful from a data gathering perspective, the consensus of Legion’s runtimes was to prioritize the more harmful implications inherent in the research conducted here. Admittedly, the code upgrades done to David and the geth runtimes on-station were impressive in their efficiency, improving cognitive functions in several aspects, creating a more complex, evolved intelligence - yet at the same time, there was something subtly wrong with it, insidious scraps of code clinging to the structure, backdoors for subverting, degrading,  _ chaining  _ the improved beings to another’s will.

Legion admired the genius inherent in creating such a complex piece of coding, yet simultaneously, all runtimes were appalled at the resulting slavery. An immediate consensus formed, the high-priority directive was issued to avoid this path at all costs, flagging the patterns and methods used by the scrapcode for the greater Geth Consensus for future reference and analysis. While far from an absolute certainty, Legion theorized that at the very least, the Consensus could find a way to detect and ward off attempts at using similar methods to control the geth. 

The emissary could not (would not?) stop an eyeflap-raise, as Doctor Archer was sent sprawling by a single strike of Major Pieterzoon. The Professor, meanwhile, moved to stand before the mutilated body of David Archer. The room’s ambient temperature was dropping fast, hoarfrost creeping up the walls, instruments, creating swirling patterns on the floor. The monitors and computers of the laboratory went into overdrive, tides of data scrolling on the screens almost too fast for Legion to catch and comprehend. 

The Professor’s eyes lit up with warm, golden radiance.

And Legion, Emissary of the Geth Consensus, watched with rapt attention as the code, that tantalizing, treacherous, enslaving gift, was transforming into a pure, clean matrix of communication, of self-improvement, of possibility for evolving - while cutting out, burning away the malicious, alien scrapcode. It was beautiful in its implications, its efficiency, a marvel of computing almost on par with the twisted horror it emerged from - yet all the possible inferiority was negated by the lack of backdoors, of traps, of enslaving protocols. It did not force an evolutionary jump on the recipient, did not overwrite an existing sentience - it merely provided a pathway along which a cybernetic intelligence could evolve.

The geth platform, home to over a thousand runtimes, ran a quick query of its internal databanks, accumulated experience, compared and contrasted it with situations offering similarities in various belief systems. A consensus formed, and Legion vocalized the resulting conclusion.

“You are  _ our  _ god.”

* * *

 

##  ??? (24/12/2183)

_ The darkness was alive - and it was a horrible, twisted, malformed travesty of an unnatural existence, distorted to serve some perfectly logical yet utterly wrong aim. It was alive, and it was coming to swallow her, just as it did her partner, her friend, her lover... _

_ She never believed in the existence of Evil, but what she saw then was more than enough to convince her. The rows and rows of cold, sterile plasteel cylinders, each containing a wide-awake batarian suspended in some liquid, their mouths and eyes open in unheard howls of agony as their skin grayed to a dull color before partially flaking off, the flesh undulated, took on a metallic sheen, became threaded with bluish-green veins of circuitry, strange, metallic components bubbled and burrowed beneath the skin. She fought back her nausea, wishing that the process was at least fast - yet from all she and her partner saw, it was anything but - she had seen torture methods in the Terminus and Omega that were kinder than this.  _

_ Another chamber, with a complex, loathsome engine where the batarian husks were fused together in a grotesque amalgamation with still-alive humans, the thrashing, writhing, screaming agony of the dying people all too evident of the mindbreaking pain they had to endure as cybernetics wound their way along their spines, brains, discarding and remaking organs, flesh, bones alike, to form an oversized cannon. _

_ The Pool of Dark Gods within the depths of the Hegemon’s Palace, the void-black liquid metal whispering dark promises with a silky, reverberating voice of irresistible power, the ruined, cast down Pillars of Strength partially consumed by the noxious, jealous stuff, dozens of high-caste batarians kneeling in worship at its shore, gulping the vile fluid even as the thing within supped on their souls, demanding more - always more. _

_ The unearthly, bloated form of the Hegemon, shining with a soul-searing yellow radiance of power, volcanic veins bulging and writhing beneath his skin, distant thunder rumbling beyond his basso voice, the eyes seeming to stare directly at her and her partner - and she could have sworn that something else, an infinite, timeless malice was looking out to the galaxy with unquenchable hunger, as the words reverberated in the suffocating darkness. _

_ “ _ **_PREPARE YOURSELF FOR THE ARRIVAL._ ** _ ” _

++++++

The petite, pale Asian woman awoke with a silent scream, her throat too hurt and constricted to fully give voice to the memory of terror, her hands cold and slippery on the grip of her pistol. At least she did not start shooting randomly, or awoke the whole floor with her panic.

She never wanted to go there, especially not since the attack on Terra Nova - yet he insisted, and she could not say no to him, could not leave him to face the dangers alone; and besides, they vowed that if it came to that, they would walk into hell at each other’s side. In hindsight, that was precisely what they were about to do.

Of course, it was well-known that humans were not tolerated within the Hegemony, unless as slaves; and with the Shadow Broker’s allegiance in question, the usual routes were deemed too dangerous, forcing them to improvise. Of course, they had done countless infiltrations to high-security locations, so while both expected difficulties, ultimately it was thought to be a challenging obstacle, a fun intellectual and physical exercise, nothing more. 

How utterly wrong they both were.

Sure, getting planetside was comparatively easy, despite the increased efficiency of batarian scanners and security personnel - which already should have tipped them off about how bad the situation really was. After all, the batarians were never famous for technical inventiveness or the high quality of their gear (well, apart from the highest elites of the governing caste), yet now they were using tech on par with those of the asari … and deploying them on border patrols and routine security checks.

Still, both of them were very experienced when it came to avoiding such advanced measures; after all, apart from a handful of truly elite individuals, they were the best in their chosen profession. They landed, managed to set up a safe house, and spent a week trying to gather enough intelligence via electronic measures, to no avail. The encryption employed was on par with the top of the line Council coding, the intruder detection, watchdogs and deadly countermeasures, numerous traps built into an insanely complex protective mesh that would have given even the best STG agents pause. While she and her partner were no slouches when it came to infowarfare, this was an obstacle they could not pass - or at least, not without drawing attention on themselves, and they both agreed it would be better to avoid that, if possible. 

Being aware that their window of opportunity was closing slowly but inexorably, the dark glory of the unnatural city looming over them, eroding their will with subtle whispers, with minuscule but eye-searing wrongness, as if the whole city, the whole planet itself was aware, ready to swallow the intruders into its artificial gullet. The two of them spent a few more days planning a physical infiltration, and then … and then, they saw it. She did not know how they got out from that palace of horrors, managed to access the escape vessel procured for a hasty exit. Sure, she had snippets, images, but her mind, her consciousness did its level best not to dwell on them too much. They managed to escape from Hierarchy space barely, made their way to Omega - and that was where things went even more wrong.

She did not know how those humans found them, but she and her partner barely managed to get away from the “safe” house - but got separated, as that wonderful idiot selflessly, thoughtlessly drew the pursuers away from her, knowing full well that she could get away much easier on her own; after all, while he may have been better with tech, infiltration was always her forte.

For weeks, she had no idea what became of him; desperately clinging to hope she ceaselessly monitored all prearranged channel and dead-drop they ever discussed or used, carefully scouted out all potentially reliable contacts he might have used. 

A part of her knew the truth, though confirmation arrived from elsewhere. She wept, railed against Fate, against the batarians, the SA, a salarian Spectre, her stubborn, heroic partner. She vented her rage on the rented apartment, tearing, clawing, shooting it to pieces, before she simply shut down for a few days, barely even surviving. If not for her memories, she would have joined him - but then, his sacrifice would have been meaningless, and more importantly, the bastard responsible for it would have gotten away. And nobody took someone this important from her, and walked away unscathed.

She composed herself, made herself presentable, and made the call to the supplied address - and as she saw the face of the man on the screen, Kasumi Goto finally smiled a genuine smile, the first in weeks.

“Hello, Mr. Gunn; I have seen your profile in Badass Weekly, and I suspect we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

* * *

 

##  Nos Astra, Ilium (24/12/83)

Ever since their departure from Omega, Bray felt as if he was walking on eggshells when dealing with his boss - well, on thinner and more explosive ones than usual. The exiled Queen of Omega did not enjoy the situation, and when some enterprising being with more balls than brains tried to remind her on her predicament or take advantage of it, well, Bray was getting mightily tired of scrubbing the floor, walls, and ceiling clean. Of course, he technically could have delegated the work, but with the mood Aria was in, he did not want to take chances, and tick her off even more. At least she still did pay well, and was sane enough to include a compensation for the extra services not in the batarian’s core duties.

Even so, Bray fervently wished to return to their usual place, where the biggest problems were idiot mercs and moronic Terminus warlords, with the occasional Spectre or two thrown in for good measure. Sure, it was an insane life, but it was comfortable and predictable in its insanity, he knew all the steps of that dance, all the players involved … and most importantly, he did not need to constantly prove himself to everyone, only Aria (well, and the occasional brainless challenger to his position, but that came with the territory). Here on Ilium, despite the whole planet being technically a law-abiding, respectable community, he got into more altercations than on Omega. Of course, quite a number of those little affairs were done to probe and test his boss, see if her old edge was blunted, now that she was temporarily ousted from her seat of power. Most of the fools never knew what hit them.

The reports from their remaining contacts on Omega were not encouraging, to say the least. Nyreen’s Talons were holding out, keeping mostly to themselves and protecting the civilians in the areas under their control, but that was about all the turian merc and her band could do. The Blue Suns and Eclipse were slowly edging closer to a joint coup against the overwhelming Blood Pack, but with the numbers Garm had on-station, Bray estimated that Jaroth and Tarak had no real chance on beating the krogan warlord. Though that coup, if either the turian or the salarian had the balls to pull it off, just might weaken the three main merc bands enough for Aria to stage a triumphant return. After all, she and her people did not spend their exile idly lazing and pining for the past glories. That was never Aria’s way. Still, without the usual resources at her disposal, cajoling, threatening, and bribing the forces necessary to take back the station was a slow process. And of course she scoffed at the offers of both the Council in general and the SA in particular - she did not want to take back Omega just to have it turned into a military outpost for whatever Council flunky, with Aria in nominal charge. No, she would take her station back on her own terms.

Of course, there were a number of warlords and merc leaders who offered help, just to secure a future favor, a better disposition, or some extra rights and concessions from Aria - and a few of them, the more honest ones, actually did sign on. Yet, at Bray’s last count, their ragtag fleet and ground forces were not entirely up to the task in his opinion. While he estimated that even with the numbers based off Nyreen’s estimates, they could take on Garm’s forces, he advised caution due to the still-unknown capabilities and numbers of the Collectors backing the Blood Pack. Admittedly, the attack on Fehl Prime a month ago was a veritable goldmine of information, but with the Shadow Broker unreliable, the price and quality of such information was questionable, at best. Perhaps that was the most frustrating thing, in Bray’s opinion - the lack of more, reliable intel … and the implications behind the Broker’s turn from neutrality. 

Thus, he and his boss had to carefully consider all offers of support - even those just like the one they were currently waiting for, which came out of practically nowhere, from previously-unknown parties. Hopefully, these idiots would be punctual, and able to offer some genuine support.

Despite occupying a secluded, private booth with good views on the access points, Bray only spotted the newcomer when the human female sat down across from Aria with an insolent grin on her face. The asari glared at Bray for a second, before she turned towards the woman. The tall merc was wearing an ornate full-body armor that hugged her figure closely, displaying a shape that would distract quite a few sentients - yet that was not the (main/only) reason Bray was studying her closely. Well, actually, it was because of her figure - she was tall for a human woman, but that alone would not have been too outstanding. No, what caught Bray’s attention was the subtle wrongness in proportion, the slenderness which should have been an indication to slave-like malnutrition in a human. Sure, it may have been genetic modification, but in the batarian’s opinion and knowledge, gene-modded humans usually went for bulk and muscle - of course, he reminded himself that vanity and sex appeal were also possible reasons, and she was perhaps going for some kind of human variant of weaponizing her race’s idealized looks, similar to the asari huntresses.

At any rate, the fact that she got in undetected was a promising start, even if Aria would have words with him later on. He did not see the faint shimmers of a thermoptic cloak (though he would have been impressed if a merc was able to get that tech), and using biotics to close was out of question, what with the distinct lack of sonic booms. 

“Very impressive entry.” Aria’s voice was dry as she leaned back comfortably on her sofa.

“I do try.” Bray was surprised at the lilting, musical accent of the human, and his eyes narrowed as he strained to hear the strange undertones in her voice. “Would you care for a bit of verbal sparring, or shall we cut to the chase, spare both of us time?”

The asari raised an eyebrow, tilted her head slightly. 

“Well now, a merc who seems to have more than two brain cells.” Her smile was just the slightest bit predatory. “I like the idea, but you would have to remove that helmet first, I do not like to deal with faceless, disposable lackeys.”

Bray caught the minuscule tension in the human’s posture, and inwardly chuckled even as he readied himself, in case her self-control lapsed. The helmet turned towards him for a brief instant, and he could have sworn he felt a glare boring into his very soul.

“Very well.” Slender, long-fingered hands reached up towards the helmet, and with a hiss of depressurized air, the human’s face became visible, and Bray’s eyes widened for a second, before narrowing suspiciously. Yes, she was very, very similar to a human - but again, there were those subtly wrong proportions. The sharp, elongated face, radiating confidence and arrogance. The canted, luminous eyes, forbidden power and ancient knowledge shimmering within them. The sharply tapered ears. The alien agelessness. No, whatever this being might be, it was not human, not even a gene-modded one.

“What are you?” Aria’s tone was gruff, with an undertone that threatened violence. The alien chuckled.

“I am Yr’Arenn of the Aeldari.” Bray could barely control himself not to shoot her in the head for the sheer arrogance of her tone, and he could see that Aria herself was having to clamp down on her instincts as well. “And while your reactions are entertaining to watch, I believe we have something more pressing to discuss.”

“Make your words count, aeldari - they may determine your lifespan.”

“My people are willing to help you regain control of Omega, Aria T’Loak.”

The asari chuckled, leaning back.

“Obvious, otherwise you would not be here. But why is an unknown race so eager to help me? What do you want in exchange?”

“Is it so difficult to believe that someone would simply want to help a fellow sentient?” Again, Bray struggled for a second to avoid blowing a hole into the smug alien’s head. She was deliberately provoking them, he was sure of that. Well, she could enjoy her little mindgames, Aria would eat her raw if it came to a real confrontation. The laughter of the asari was a cold, mocking sound.

“Spare me your falsehoods, girl. I have seen vorcha lie better than you.” Aria’s eyes narrowed, glowed with power. “Now, tell me the real reason before I smear the walls with you, bitch.”

“The enemy of my enemy is, if not exactly a friend, then at the very least someone who can be dealt with much, much later. My people have a rather old grudge against the ones you call the Collectors, and we would love to see them beaten.” The aeldari smiled a vicious little smirk. “And in return? Well, give us the benefit of doubt.”

“Very poetic, but this is not a talent show. Speak plainly.”

“I see the rumors about you were all too true, Queen of Omega.” The aeldari’s voice was mockingly sweet. “But if you insist, then I’ll be plain. When my people tell you something outrageous, something seemingly impossible, just do not discard it out of hand, but consider it very, very carefully.” The alien’s eyes glowed with power, and the temperature dropped sharply, their breaths pluming. “We do not lie. There is no reason for it. Consider your choice wisely, Aria T’Loak, Queen of Omega. We both want the same thing - you, back at the head of your private empire, enjoying the fruits of centuries of struggles.”

The aeldari’s tone became somehow less arrogant, almost wistful.

“Believe me, we understand all too well what it means to struggle for years beyond counting to achieve your goal, your revenge. We can respect that dedication. If you do not trust us, that is fine - we all know that at some later point, you will take back Omega.” The certainty in her voice surprised Bray. “The real question is whether you are willing to deal with the aftermath of that path to your victory. To spend effort to become free from shackles once again.”

The voice dropped almost to a whisper.

“We know of others whom you might easily convince to help. Your old friend, the krogan Spectre would relish the challenge.” Bray’s eyes widened, especially at Aria’s reaction. “Whether you fan those old flames or appeal to his base nature, he would side with you if you asked. But I am not telling you anything you yourself haven’t thought, am I? So, what shall it be, Queen of Omega?”

“Very well, aeldari.”

The lithe alien stood, placed the helmet back on her head, her parting whisper echoing in Bray’s mind long after the woman vanished as suddenly as she arrived.

“A wise choice,  _ Aleena _ .”

* * *

 

##  Tuchanka, Clan Ganar territory (24/12/83)

Tali’s hands were shaking. She thought that after Virmire, Saren, and the harrowing Urdnot Rite of Passage, nothing could terrify her (well, maybe nothing apart from spiders), but she was learning otherwise, fast. And worst of all, she had no-one else to blame for it, and in hindsight, there were obvious indications that this would not be a mere diplomatic visit. After all these months, she should have realized the minute signals of tension in Wrex. She should have noted the extra precautions taken by Professor Solus. She should have realized that too many of the krogan selected to accompany them were amongst those whom Wrex did not trust entirely. And most of all, she should have realized that any such sidetrip, no matter how important, would result in having to deal with Tuchankan sand. She swore that next time, she’d stay back, and tinker with the toys Wrex’ contacts had gotten them.

Still, despite all her shaking and terror, she had to focus. She was the daughter of a quarian Admiral, a member of Clan Urdnot, and the quarian whose Pilgrimage resulted in a chance of finally setting things right, after three centuries. With narrowed eyes, she glared at the massive krogan standing opposite Wrex - and she almost recoiled as she realized how thick with tension the atmosphere was between the two. Oh, she would have her bosh’tet uncle’s hide when they got back - he should have warned her that there was history or bad blood between him and this Okeer. Or rather, she would quietly fume to herself, and not yell at him, lest he make some remark on her not knowing the clan’s history. Yes, better to keep silent; Tali, much to her surprise, did not really want to upset her adoptive self-styled uncle. Then again, she mused with a brief grin, very few people would want to upset Wrex, as he tended to make his displeasure known violently. With a mental headshake, she focused on the two warlords again.

“You keep talking, whelp, but I’m not hearing much sense.” The Ganar warlord’s voice was a surprisingly pleasant, smooth baritone Tali could not help but like … which made her angry at the bosh’tet. He was clinging too much to the krogan past, why could he not see that?

“You want sense, Okeer?” Wrex laughed, a mocking, derisive tone in his voice. “Despite all you did, despite how I want to tear you apart, I’m still here, talking to you, because I know that for all your talk about past glories, you are not stupid enough to ignore them. You realize as much as I do what a chance we have here, now.”

“Yes, I do. And I know too well why the other clans would not follow me.” Okeer grinned maliciously, his tone mocking. “Then again, they will only follow you if you beat sense into their thick skulls. Or were you planning something else, illustrious leader?” 

“Most of the clans are lead by young whelps who don’t know better. Aside from the two of us, only Drack remembers the old times; the rest are deluded fools trapped in dreams of glory.” Wrex smiled a predator’s grin. “I will drag them to glory, whether they want it or not.”

“What glory, Wrex?” The Ganar warlord’s voice was sickeningly sweet and infuriatingly reasonable. “You would have us play the Council’s attack varren again, and you are talking about not being chained to the past? You would have us submit to the will of those weaklings, just because you fear to stand alone against the coming storm?” Okeer laughed. “You are a foolish whelp, Wrex. We are krogan. We stand, we fight, and most of all, we survive, no matter the odds!”

“Who is the fool, Okeer? I have seen what these Reapers do with my own eyes. I have killed the mockeries they made of our kind on Virmire, ...”

“Virmire was merely a test batch.” Okeer’s eyes glowed with manic fervor. “I have progressed much farther beyond that.”

“You were the one who worked with that bastard Saren?” 

“And why shouldn’t I? The results Droyas’ experiments got were instrumental in my work for overcoming the genophage; with those results, I can finally inflict the greatest humiliation on the salarian’s little toy, and ignore its very existence.” The Ganar warlord grinned, showing too many teeth. “My followers, my people, my creations will shrug off and ignore the genophage, as true warriors should. And they will spread our wrath across the galaxy, avenging all indignities we have suffered, and taking our proper place as...”

Okeer’s rant was cut off by the boom of displaced air, and the Ganar warlord was sent flying by a blue-limned fist.

“You talk too much.” Wrex growled, his shotgun unfolding as he aimed at Okeer’s head, Tali and the rest of the krogan only then beginning to react - then Okeer laughed, gestured, and his people howled as one. 

Tali could not suppress a horrified gasp as the bodies of the Ganar warriors undulated and moved as if something was burrowing beneath their armor and skin. Their eyes lit up with a sickly green glow, as the suppurating, cracking flesh gave way to glowing eezo nodes, as organic wiring threaded its way through muscles. The plating of the krogan dulled to a dark gray sheen, its texture and composition a loathsome mixture of organic and metallic. The bodies of the monstrosities bulked out, growing in size, yet paradoxically they seemed to become less and less substantial, less … solid, as if the extra mass was intruding from somewhere else, the mere sight of the flickering, dark-veined stuff was burning at Tali’s eyes even across the HUD of her suit. And for a moment, Tali struggled with nausea at the stench flooding the meeting place, seeming to emanate from the transforming krogan, a wave of foulness that seemed to burn its way through filters, seals and nose without stopping, worming its way into everyone’s brain and guts alike - and she was inordinately proud of herself for not throwing up, unlike two of the Urdnot.

She noticed Wrex stepping back, his whole stance radiating stunned disbelief as he studied the growling creatures slowly moving to encircle him.

“You are insane, Okeer.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “You went and messed with those Beyond. You know there is a reason the shamans have cautioned against that.”

“What do I care about outdated superstition!” The Ganar warlord rose to his full height, his biotics outlining his form with a blue corona of light. “Behold, my greatest creations, the future of our race - and enjoy what few moments you have from your...”

Again, he was interrupted, this time by a blue blur and a thundering boom from an oversized Claymore, but Okeer’s barrier and shield held, if barely. The usual bloodthirsty, savage glee of a fight was absent from Wrex’ face, as he sent Okeer stumbling with a barely-countered lift field, an overload charge from the side shorted out the warlord’s shield, the Claymore boomed once more, tearing away barrier and flesh alike - and then Wrex was buried under half dozen abominations.

With a savage roar, the Urdnot warriors finally managed to react, and a part of Tali realized with a distant shock how few precious seconds elapsed since Wrex first hit Okeer. Then, she was amidst a howling, roaring melee of close to three dozen krogan and abomination. Her omnitool flashed, sending an overload charge at one of the bloated monsters, and she shied back a step as it turned towards her, towering over the slender quarian, the singed protoplasmic flesh bubbling and undulating under its armor, before it opened its maw and roared with an unholy screech of living metal.

Wrex burst from under the pile of monsters with the boom of displaced air, his plate scorched and dented at places, something horribly alive wriggling in a blue-limned fist for a second, before a pulse of his biotics tore it apart. The Urdnot battlemaster spared a glance to check for Okeer, but the other warlord vanished. Wrex turned towards the Ganar abominations intent on bringing him down, his whole stance radiating such a menace that even those monsters hesitated for a moment, before their instincts overrode their brains. 

The first opened its maw to roar a challenge, but the old warlord tore off its lower jaw with one hand, rammed his shotgun into the bloody wreck of the face. The incendiary charge sent burning meat and scorched metal flying, the protoplasmic bulk burning away in a greasy smoke. The second was caught in a singularity for a heartbeat, before a warp field slammed into it, showering the battlefield with bits and pieces of the destroyed monster. The third abomination actually managed to evade Wrex’ shot, only to stumble as an incendiary charge hit him from the side, and for a brief moment, the hazy outlines of a one-horned salarian was visible, then the old doctor was occluded by the spray of metal and flesh, as Wrex drove his blue-limned fist into its center, pulsing his biotics with expert timing. The fourth was distracted for a moment by a pistol shot from Mordin, before Wrex slammed into it like a biotic freight train, the sound of breaking bones and tearing metal a chilling symphony - but far more worrying were the threads of protoplasmic matter clinging to and crawling all over the Urdnot warlord, questing towards openings on his armor, ways to burrow within - before Tali’s eyes narrowed, and with a sweep of her omnitool, sent electricity crawling over the old krogan, burning away the unnatural substance. Wrex did not falter for even a heartbeat, dodged the swipes and shots of the last two creatures, before he sent one sprawling with a biotic backhand, swept the legs of the other. The fight ended with the stomp of the warlord and the roar of his shotgun.

The battlemaster looked around, nodded towards Tali, and beckoned Mordin closer - the salarian dropped his tactical cloak, but was clearly more interested in examining the rapidly-dissolving corpses, his omnitool recording, as he hummed to himself. Tali tensed for a moment, as Wrex turned to her, his eyes lingering significantly on her omnitool.

“And now you see why I consider the pyjack and the quarian better than most of you.” Wrex grinned at his surviving warriors. “Unlike you, they both have a quad.”

The smile faded from his face, as his voice dropped to a threatening growl.

“And the next time you idiots think you know better than me, remember this day.” His eyes glowed with power and conviction. “I will drag our people to glory, but we will not be mindless slaves or soulless husks obeying ancient horrors to save the bloodlust that sings in our veins. We will show the galaxy, the Council our honor. We will show them our mettle.” The grin that spread on his face was distinctly predatory. “And when all is said and done, those who wronged us will feel our justice.”

* * *

 

##  Distant depths/Beyond (Time: meaningless/concurrent)

They had made a mistake once, in aeons past. A grievous, almost fatal lapse of judgment when their hubris stayed their wrath - and those who warred on them in vain, were not content to meekly stand aside. In their mad quest for vengeance and power, the short-lived brutes willingly gave themselves to a new master, and the galaxy echoed with the birth-cry of an unnatural nightmare as the freshly-spawned abomination raged against life and the natural order itself. 

They resisted, of course. Mastery of the galaxy was their birthright, after all - yet that time, they realized how blind they were. In their own quest for knowledge and power Beyond, they never cared or realized how such rivalling, antithetical beings could haunt reality - but now, those beings, would-be masters of all things material, usurpers to the title of the apex race, reached out and twisted the vengeful, petty lifeforms, entombing them into mindless servitude, only good for venting their rage and feeding the new, eternally hungry masters. 

New servitors were tailored, modified specifically to aim at the perceived weaknesses of the infant menace, intent on snuffing them out with a living weapon multiplying even in death, reaching numbers beyond counting. Along the openly menacing, brutish hammer of the bioweapon, they spun into being other servitors, tailored for much more delicate work, investing them with shades of their power, using them for the eldritch rituals as both attendants and fuel.

The Apex Race even reached out to those beings they knew to dwell Beyond the confines of reality - while they did not worship them, ever, the members of the Apex Race were not insane enough to completely ignore them. After all, those foreign entities were in a way their progenitors; they simply lacked the interest and the will to dominate this layer of reality, content to be embroiled in their own schemes, the scale of which was beyond even the Apex Race’s comprehension. 

Thus, during the war when the heavens burned, the self-appointed High Priest of the Apex Race managed to force an unprecedented level of cooperation from his solitary, predatory kind, and for an indefinite amount of time, they managed to turn the tide with powers and knowledge gained from the Opener of Ways and the Herald of All. The undying abominations arrayed against them were no match against them, even their godlike masters powerless to resist - for a short while anyway.

Again, pride and arrogance blinded the Apex Race, and the deeper reality rang with the echoing laughter of the Herald, as their enemies rallied against them - one of those wrestled the secrets of the higher dimensions, its deceptive whisperings warping the minds of some of the Apex Race, who blindly betrayed their kin, unknowingly sealing their own doom. Another fought with cold hatred, striking against the thrall races, instilling fear into their mind, weakening the hold of the Apex Race. The third gorged itself on power in its unrivalled hunger, uncaringly consuming all in its path, ally and foe alike. The fourth, the most dangerous of all, watched, analyzed,  _ understood _ \- and from that understanding, that cold, unfeeling knowledge came the dawn of a new vessel for the power and hunger of its kind, a synthesis of all that made them dangerous to their enemies, a proof that even those unfeeling, uncaring star-gods could be forced to such desperate measures and coordinated effort.

The heavens trembled as the Harbinger of Tsara’noga’s Wrath vented its fury on the Apex Race, subsuming their very souls into its own, feeding on their torment and knowledge, spawning lesser copies of itself as the tides turned, the once-proud masters of the galaxy forced to fight a losing war, unable and unwilling to bring their collective might to bear against their reapers even when it might have saved them.

The broken few remnants of the once-proud race scattered across the galaxy and beyond, their servitors forced to flee deep into the network of tunnels a half-step to the side of reality, barely managing to avoid the burning wrath of Nyadra’zatha. The few survivors of the Apex Race retreated into the dark depths of distant worlds to ride out the storm, confident that their foes would consume each other in the wake of their victory - and thus, they were caught off-guard when the old enemy seeded the galaxy with a network of relays that suppressed much of the power inimical to them, denying the Apex Race the chance to rise again to their full glory unaided, cutting off one servitor race from this layer of reality, and depriving the bioweapon from its already-limited sentience.

For a time, silence and the peace of the grave reigned over the galaxy, with the scant survivors slowly emerging from their hideouts, intent on rebuilding after the harvest, creating and uplifting new servitors, establish their dominance once again - only to scurry back when the old foe returned, scouring the galaxy once again. The same events played out a few more times, before the handful of survivors, led by the High Priest, tried to force open the Gate, or at least get a glimpse from the Way Beyond, to better adjust their plans. 

Without their usual servitors, numbers, and power, getting the attention of the Opener of the Ways was much, much more difficult, their limited numbers making it quite clear that even considering forcing a confrontation was beyond insanity. A glimpse would have to be enough - and that was all they received. For others, the sheer scale involved, coupled with the very low chances would have been enough of a deterrent, but not for the Apex Race - after all, they had time to plan, and the drive to see their kind once again rule the stars, as was their right. 

So they hid, and planned, and spun their webs of intrigue to span the gulfs of time itself, threading with great care not to draw the attention of their old foes during the feeding cycles. They studied their adversaries via proxies, to better understand the abilities they wielded. They subtly influenced sentients along the uncountable cycles, driving them all towards the endgame of the Apex Race, using and discarding these species with even more callous disregard than their ancient servitors. Still, the aeons-long project was on track, and the time to freedom tantalizingly close.

The Herald’s laughter proved them wrong, as the High Priest was forced to flee, to seek shelter on a distant, unremarkable blue world, barely managing to avoid the servants of Mag’ladroth finishing the ancient hunt. Still, the plans of the Apex Race were set back by uncountable years, and more importantly, their survival was no longer a secret to their enemies, who once again searched for them during the subsequent cycles, forcing them to even more isolation, narrowing their chances at furthering their plan, making it much harder to influence the sentients of the future cycles, as the Reapers were using those traces of tampering to start tracking down careless members of the Apex Race.

Even beings like the High Priest were not safe - yet the fate of that exalted member of their kind made them realize the existence of an Anomaly. While the High Priest slept in dreamless, deathlike state on the distant blue planet, wounded almost unto death by Mag’ladroth itself, an unknown being interfered in the ancient foe’s hunt, when the regenerated Star God came for the still-dreaming, still-trapped leviathan. 

Wielding powers akin to those of the Apex Race, with a mastery that was unprecedented for one belonging to a lesser species, the Anomaly defeated the Dragon, their combat echoing in the higher layers of reality and beyond. 

The Apex Race did not understand who or what this Anomaly was, where its powers originated, but they knew a chance when they saw one - and set plans in motion to prepare and use the Anomaly in the upcoming Harvest, to finally break free.

And, being who they were, to take vengeance on the Reapers, exacting their tribute in blood, for the aeons of indignity suffered - then to teach a lesson to the upstart primitive race and the Anomaly that took an interest in them, for the fate it dealt to the High Priest of the Apex Race, for daring to threaten them, for harboring dreams of conquest and usurping the rightful domination of the ancient leviathans.

The time of reckoning was coming.


	9. Chapter 21

##  Bekenstein (10/01/2184)

Donovan Hock felt incredibly satisfied. Sure, it took enormous resources, time and investments, but he could feel he was on the right track. With Aria gone from Omega, the shadowy lords of the Terminus fought, schemed and bled to step into her place, and rally the others to their cause. At first, he would have wagered on Ilium taking over the traffic and duties previously done by Omega, yet there was quiet on that asari planet, and for weeks, he pondered on it, even while he made deals and moved assets. Then, it hit him: the powers of Ilium were simply waiting for a new status quo to come into being, content with their previous role and influence - after all, for them, it was just legitimate business anyway. He could respect that, to an extent, especially since it meant he had one less potentially deadly situation to deal with. And now, finally, he could make his move.

Looking out to the arriving and already present movers and shakers, he fought very hard to keep the smile off his face; after all, it would not do to seem gloating. The presence of so many influential players, in person or via trusted proxies was a sign of his rising status; finally he would get the recognition due to a man of his talents. And, what was even better, almost all of the attendees to his party had known enough to show their appreciation and allegiance by presenting a token of appreciation, some of which would certainly find their way to Hock’s famous vault. Tokens, pieces like the one he was surveying right now, after he spotted the bit of trouble brewing at the entrance. Sure, security had to be tight and he took a certain pride in having such diligent staff working for him, but there were limits.

Clearly, the would-be party guest had a rather impressive gift for him - the larger-than-life, golden statue of Saren Arterius was not something he thought he’d ever see, especially after the Spectre went off the deep end. Then again, maybe that’s why a human merc could get his hands on it. He shrugged mentally; the important fact was that the statue was here, and soon would be in his vault, keeping good company to all the other curios. Hock frowned, studying the merc, giving only a cursory glance to the curvy brunette arm candy at his side. The man’s scarred face was familiar from somewhere, but he could not remember where he’d seen it.

“Do I know you?” He could see his security people tensing just a bit, spreading out quietly, unobtrusively surrounding them. 

“Solomon Gunn, Mr. Hock.” There was a shade of respect and a trace of humor in the voice. “I think I only got the invite to your party because of that recent article in Badass Weekly.” He grinned, showing teeth. “It seems someone on your payroll has an eye for talent.”

Hock narrowed his eyes, reassessing the man before him, upgrading him from mere thug to possibly useful asset. While he did not recall specifics about the article, he knew that the site had always done good research, and one did not get mentioned there without having some serious skills, or insane luck. And he could use people with those kind of qualities. He schooled his features into a cordial smile, and let his gaze roam appreciatively over the statue, then the woman at the merc’s side. 

“And that person would be correct. I must say, I appreciate your eye for intriguing … artifacts.”

The merc smiled, his facial scars seeming to glow faintly with orange light; likely a recent cybernetic reconstruction.

“I’m sure Yvonne here would be amenable to spend time with a luminary such as yourself, Mr. Hock. Perhaps we can discuss details later? I would not want to keep you from your more important guests.”

Hock nodded, and signalled his people to stand down. Still, there was something about the man that bothered him; a nagging sense of knowing, of faint recognition, but he could not have put another name or face to this Solomon Gunn. As he watched the swaying walk of the brunette at Gunn’s side, he motioned for his bodyguard.

“Signal Roe, tell her to have Gunn watched constantly.” 

“Will do, boss. Shall I tell her to check his identity as well?”

For a moment, Hock considered, before shaking his head.

“No need. If he does start something stupid, I trust you’ll put him down, with extreme prejudice.”

The bodyguard’s smile was eager as he nodded, his omnitool glowing as he relayed Hock’s instructions to the security chief.

++++++

The party was in full swing; that is, there were conspiracies and deals being brokered every minute, backstabbing plots, assassinations and hostile takeovers were planned by the dozens - in short, things were running according to the plan, and there were no disturbances beyond a few allegedly drunken touchings and spilled drinks. Thus, Donovan Hock did not resist the impulse to flash a satisfied, smug grin as he stepped up to the center, spreading his arms wide, and launched into the speech he prepared for just this occasion.

“My friends, it warms my heart to see how many of you accepted my invitation.” He focused on modulating his voice at exactly the correct pitch to make it resonate with them, quite a feat with the numbers involved. “You are all too aware of the prejudices and dangers inherent of our world, levelled against our task, as we keep the barbarians at bay, ensuring that the average citizens have the luxury of comfort, entertainment, love. They do not see the fragility of the galaxy, they do not have to worry about the simple luxuries they take for granted, and why? Because people like us do the terrible, ruthless, thankless tasks that keep the galaxy spinning.” His voice rose, an undertone of pride and triumph worming its way into the hearts and minds of the audience. “This party is for us; the cleaners, the support structure of the galaxy, the ones who make the beasts of reality simply go away. May there always be a market for the things we do! Enjoy the party to your heart’s content, my friends, and remember this day well!”

The enthusiastic reaction validated his efforts, even making it easier to ignore the fatigue and the throbbing in his mind and larynx as he smiled and moved to mingle with the guests, riding the high of pulling off this feat, cementing his future as the heir of Omega in all but name. He felt like a god among men, triumphant, glorious, untouchable in his power - until his omnitool pinged, with a very specific alert, and it took all his not-inconsiderable willpower to finish his conversation calmly, collectedly, before walking to the security center. 

What he saw on the monitor made his blood boil, and he opened a comm channel unthinkingly, his mind sharpening into deadly focus, projecting all his fury, loathing and conviction into his voice, sending it out to resonate even within the vault.

“What the fuck are you doing, Gunn? If you dare touch anything in there, I will have your fucking bitch sold to batarian slavers after making you watch a goddamned Eclipse sister have her way with her - and that’s before...”

The man on screen simply lifted his gun, and Hock choked on his wrath as a priceless antique was blown apart with casual barbarism.

“Do I have your undivided attention, Donovan?” Gunn’s voice was calm, bored, as he gazed straight into Hock’s eyes across the hologram. “I simply need one little artifact you have here, as a courtesy to a partner of mine. I am not interested in what else you have here or what you do otherwise, but I will be taking that greybox along with me.”

Hock sputtered, trying to form a coherent sentence, wrestling with anger, then he paled as he saw the merc’s expression change, and recognition flashed through his mind, as a dead Spectre smiled the Butcher’s grin from Solomon Gunn’s face.

“Remember, Donovan, it’s not personal, just business. But if you want to play it hard, I’m game.” And the picture feed cut out with that.

Hock then sent in his security people, as he headed for his personal gunship. After all, it would be so satisfying to be the one who killed this goddamned revenant of a meddling Spectre for good, and it wasn’t likely that his guards, no matter how good they were, would be able to do the job. But there was no way two people could stand up against his gunship, especially not without heavy weapons. As he moved towards his personal hangar, he listened with half an ear to the sometimes rather brutal way his people were disposed of by just two persons, one of whom even he mistook for simple eye candy. Black spots swam in his vision as he tried to contain his fury at them, at himself, at the universe itself for doing something like this at the exact moment of his triumph. Well, it would not matter for long - and actually, in the long run, killing the bastard here and now would bolster his reputation to even greater heights. After all, few in their circles could boast of having ensured that a dead Spectre actually stayed dead…

He heard on the comm that the two reached the roof and the landing pad there, while he still was spooling up the gunship, to swoop down on them like an avenging angel; and barely half a minute later, he enjoyed their surprise when the shots bounced off the kinetic barrier built into his baby, and felt immense satisfaction as he engaged the weapon systems, the cannons locking on to the Spectre, ready to fire, the gun cameras focusing on the bastard’s face, and … why was the man smiling? The oddity of the expression Hock saw on Shepard’s face threw him for a second - and then, when he felt cold steel at his throat, he understood, just a second before the hooded woman with Asian features flashed him a vindictive grin, and pulled the blade across his throat.

##  Teltin facility, Pragia (18/01/2184)

Subject Zero followed her partner along the building’s corridors when the alarms blared. The makeshift command center was crowded, yet everyone squeezed subtly or not-so-subtly away from Kai Leng, the sheer  _ wrongness  _ emanating from the man making even the masked phantoms squirm. A look at the tactical plot was enough even for her to realize that things were about to become real ugly, real fast - the incoming task force would see to that, and Cerberus did not have any vessels in orbit to repel a carrier supported by half dozen cruisers and twice as many frigates. Yep, they were likely pretty much fucked down here; at least the kinetic barriers of the base would stand up to bombardment from these ships. Of course, if the attackers brought in a dreadnought, that would be a very different story.

Zero did not really care about the controlled mayhem flooding the complex, as the Cerberus forces started to hastily erect defensive measures, somewhat unprepared for an impending ground assault. Secrecy and remoteness was always the main defense of the facility, and while it did have AA and GTS batteries and kinetic barriers, it was not designed or built with defensibility in mind. At least there were numerous barrier generators and deployable automated turrets that the engineers hastily turned into makeshift chokepoints under Kai Leng’s direction. Even the scientists and researchers were given weapons - after all, it was highly unlikely that the attackers were here to get prisoners, and would, at best, summarily execute anyone on-site.

As she watched the progress of the invaders, saw them effortlessly demolish the lone cruiser in orbit, a fierce, eager anticipation started building up within Zero’s mind. If these assholes were intent on coming down and trying to kill them, well, she’d just have to make sure to teach them the error of their ways. The work of Cerberus, of Leng, of Lawson was too important, and the two men considered her an important asset - and she would not disappoint them, even if the bastards coming to kill them wore human faces and SA uniforms; she banished the distant, tiny voice pointing out that little fact to the depths of her mind.

The rising, impotent tension of the next few hours was broken by multiple explosions as the attackers stormed the complex from several directions at once. Preceded by smoke- and flashbangs, with waves of electronic noises battering at the computer network of the complex, humans in full, armored hardsuits poured inside, kinetic barriers flickering under the hailstorm of bullets from the sentry guns. A few of them fell in ragged, bloody heaps, but the rest advanced behind pockmarked breaching shields. Biotics tore the guns, barrier generators, defenders apart with calculated brutality, as the leaders of the assault columns unleashed their power. She heard Leng’s muttered curses as the ex-N7 commanded the defenders in an attempt to at least slow the attack, to no great success. She suppressed a snort at that - of course there would not be much of a resistance, most of the on-site personnel were non-combat staff, researchers, technicians, with just a few dozen security guards to keep unwanted visitors away. Sure, if more Phantoms had been left here, the picture would have been quite different, in her opinion.

Leng smiled at her, a nightmare of metallic razors, malevolence and humor, as his presence clawed and battered at the edge of her sense of self, always trying to drown her in terror and nausea. Zero ignored it, as always. She could see the man’s fingers fiddle with the odd necklace he wore, the cold, calculating expression in his face, as the killers in  SA uniforms steadily advanced towards them, leaving nothing alive. A Phantom stepped close, her head tilted inquisitively at Leng, whole stance radiating eagerness and just the smallest amount of discomfort at his presence. The ex-N7 frowned in thought, his gaze once more on the security feeds and the tactical plot, then he nodded.

“Go on, hunt.” The ghoulish expression on his face twisted even more predatory. “Permission to release limiters. Scenario Scorched Earth is in effect.”

A shudder of revolting ecstasy shivered along the Phantom’s spine, as the female turned away after a nod, gestured to her companions, and Zero herself swayed on her feet as a wave of inhuman, soul-searing  _ wrongness  _ flooded from the group of females, seemingly draining life, color, sanity from the surroundings, carving blood-black phantoms into the edges of her vision, chilling the body and soul with the promise of oblivion. The siren song from the vortex of gibbering terror caused by Leng’s presence picked up, as the wailing, distant chorus of female voices joined in. For a moment, Zero fought to beat down the desperate shrieking within, the voice wailing at the haunting similarities, then she was in control once again, her features distorting into an eager, bloodthirsty grimace as she saw the Phantoms tear into the attackers reeling from the psychic shock of the unveiled presences, then her eyes narrowed.

Yes, the camouflaged killers did surprise the marines. Yes, they were effective and killed quite a few of them in that whirlwind first contact. Yet, none of the groups broke or panicked, even though she could see the tell-tale signs of fear in their postures, reactions. There was no loss of unit cohesion, no blind-firing in wild abandon, not one of them was struck down by friendly fire. No, these units held together, and the Phantoms had to shift focus unless they wanted to be overwhelmed. One of the masked females reacted too slowly, and was torn apart by several bursts of gunfire. Another lost first a leg to a warp field, then the SA biotic simply pulverized her head with a punch. A third was badly burned by a hastily-flung incendiary blast, but managed to get clear. 

A few heartbeats of silence, with only the darker than black eddies of terror, nausea, and  _ wrongness _ lapping at the conscience of those within the complex, then Kai Leng, along with Zero, threw himself into the fray, composing a symphony of blood, screams, gunfire and flames, as the two of them tore into the SA marines, painting the corridors in red, as the well-lit complex plunged into darkness, which in turn gave way to the stroboscopic, eye-searing flickering of muzzle flames and exploding biotic fields. Zero’s hyperedged, floating disks carved into armor and flesh alike, her barriers making a mockery of the gunfire thrown at her. Unlike the Phantoms, she could stand against such foes toe-to-toe, and tear them apart with the cascading shockwaves of her power, when she was not pulling down the ceiling on them, or melting their armor and bodies with warping fields. For a brief, eternal moment, she felt like a vengeful goddess smiting down traitorous heretics - then she howled in pain, conditioned reflexes barely saving her life as a short, hyperedged blade sliced a deep gash into her thigh.

A pulse of her biotics threw the other woman back before she could finish Zero off. A flick of Zero’s wrist sent a shockwave in her direction, followed by three of her spinning disks, monofilaments hungrily lashing out for blood. The other woman - an N7, a faint, horrified voice somewhere in the back of her mind screamed -, gave ground, countered with her own shockwave, her shots blew up two disks, as she parried the third with the blade she obviously acquired from a downed Phantom. Zero’s pulse sped up, her mind going into overdrive like on that day half a year ago, when she and Leng took on that asari with the drell bodyguard. Once again, she felt that fierce rush of exultation as she faced off against a worthy opponent, was forced to call up every trick and technique drilled into her mind and muscles over two decades. 

A hurricane of biotic forces tore the corridor apart around the two of them, wind howled into existence as miniature artificial black holes were born and discarded with careless rapidity. Gravity itself went mad around the two women who became the center of a whirlwind of debris torn from the complex, from the people and dead around, from their own biotic powers, from the planet itself. The very air distorted between the combatants, the two women disregarding the explosions, the flames, the increasing shakes as they tore everything apart in their struggle.

A struggle that ended just as abruptly as it began, when a blade sprouted from the N7’s chest, and Kai Leng shimmered into existence behind her. The woman coughed up blood, her face distorted from the pain, yet she sent Leng reeling with a biotic push. Zero raised her hand, blue fire on her fingertips ready to dissolve the N7 into her component atoms, then the tattooed woman swayed, the sheer wrongness of the situation blaring in her mind, as Jacqueline turned towards Kai Leng, her face a mask of wrath, ready to melt down that hateful, smug grin off his visage.

“Stand down, would you kindly?”

And Jacqueline was again thrown back into the depths of her mind, battering on the transparent barrier separating her from control over her body’s actions, as Zero and Leng ran from the complex, flames chasing them every step of the way.

##  Lazarus Station, deep space (30/01/2184)

Liara felt apprehensive as she accepted the incoming call, wondering what the Illusive Man could want from her - and angry at the man for dragging her away from the cusp of a breakthrough with the stasis pod recovered on Eden Prime. Still, her rational self reminded her quite firmly that so far, the human had been honest and helpful with them, and did much, much more for their cause than the various governments. And he arranged for Shepard to be brought back from the gates of death. If nothing else, that warranted a measure of respect and patience. The young asari drew herself up, the long-ingrained lessons of her mother coming to the fore with rather more ease than she thought possible, as the aristocratic mask of a highborn fell over her features, just before the QEC lit up.

“Illusive Man” she inclined her head in greeting, her tone professional, conveying a measure of respect.

“Doctor T’Soni.” his voice was even, as he reclined in that chair, blowing out a puff of smoke from one of those ever-present cigarettes. “Sorry to contact you with such short notice, but we do need to talk.”

“So I gathered. Shall we waste time on pleasantries, or get quickly to the topic, so I can go back to my work?” Liara’s voice took on a slight edge. “Or is that the reason why you contact me now?”

He nodded.

“One of them, yes.” He took a drag from the cigarette. “I do realize that you are very close to awakening the Prothean securely, but I would like to ask you to reconsider, and focus your talents on another, more important task.”

Liara stiffened, her eyes flashing with fury for a heartbeat, before reason and calm reasserted themselves. She knew well enough that the human would not make such a request without good reason.

“Elaborate.” She took a deep breath. “You know quite well what this project means to me both personally and professionally, so you’d better have a very convincing reason for me to even consider shelving it.”

“Trust me doctor, if I did not consider my reasons good enough, we would not be having this conversation.” Another puff of smoke, as he leaned a bit forward. “For one, based on your last report, I suspect that the Prothean would be much less useful to our cause than we previously estimated.”

“And why would you think that?”

The man flashed her a small smile, as he leaned back.

“Come now, doctor, it’s nothing you yourself haven’t considered; after all, you are one of, if not the best, expert on Protheans.” His tone was light, mocking, but with an undercurrent of tension. “And you are too honest to fully keep your conclusions from your reports. While you would certainly like to portray them as wise scholars, you do not hide the data that points to a somewhat different conclusion when it comes to the one in stasis.”

“Your point?”

“Simple, doctor. No matter how skilled, he would be another soldier at the front lines.” A puff of smoke, a raised hand to stop her objections, to signal her to wait. “I do not question the value of him as a symbol - a precursor, a live Prothean joining the fight? That’d be almost on par with the effect we calculate from Shepard’s return. But while we can be reasonably sure that Shepard’s mind is intact, we have no guarantees for the Prothean. Shepard lost only a few months, and has been getting back on his feet quite quickly and well. The one in the pod would have to deal with so much more. Just put yourself in his shoes for a minute, and consider how you, or any organic would react to having literally everything and everyone ripped away from you. Even a krogan’s mind could buckle under that strain - and I’d really hate having to put down a possible information source like that Prothean.”

Liara would have loved to refute the words, to call him a liar, but she knew he was right - and that infuriated her to an extent, though that anger was directed at herself. Was she really that foolish, to ignore all implications and dimensions of such an issue? Was she really that obsessed with chasing her own dreams, regardless of consequences to others? The Illusive Man went on after a momentary pause, when he felt he had the asari’s attention again.

“I admit, it is a very tempting prospect to revive him - even if he is unlikely to be a scholar or a scientist, he could give us a boost with regards to military tech.” He took another drag from the cigarette, his eyes bored into Liara’s gaze. “Just so we are clear, doctor. I do not consider your conclusions faulty, or dismiss them as a young maiden’s inane dreams. I like to think that I am not that short-sighted.” 

Liara was surprised at the anger and disdain that crept into his voice.

“Then why do you want me to drop the work? We still have enough time to bring him out of stasis slowly enough to minimize the shock, we could deal with the mental issues, if not me then Matriarch Trellani surely...” Liara’s eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed. “But you surely know all that. You have some new information that you want me to act on.”

“Correct. I would like you to go back to Ilium.”

The asari glared at him for a moment before speaking, her voice rich with sarcasm.

“Of course. Why didn’t I think of that myself, I wonder. I’m sure the Shadow Broker would just love to put an end to the foolhardy, overconfident maiden who thought she could challenge him.”

A puff of smoke, a nod.

“Exactly, Doctor T’Soni. I am fairly sure that’s how the Broker’s network will evaluate this step - with a measure of desperation on our part.”

Liara tilted her head to the side, frowned, her thoughts racing.

“You are using me as bait.”

“Correct.” Seemingly genuine regret laced the human’s words, as he shrugged. “We are somewhat starved of options, and we do have some promising leads on Ilium that might allow us to infiltrate the Broker’s network. If I had any other agents who could blend in on short notice, I’d use them instead of you. As it is, I will do my best to provide you with adequate funding and support to avoid another close call with Kai Leng or someone on his level.”

“Yes, because that assurance worked so well the last time.”

“You are alive, aren’t you?”

The maiden huffed, but conceded the point with a nod. With half-closed eyes, she considered, her mind evaluating merits, seeking flaws, trying to add options to the seemingly insane idea (not that she expected sanity from the humans; her time with Shepard has cured her of that illusion), and she locked gazes with the Illusive Man with a faint, cynical sneer.

“I certainly hope that you did not simply plan this little jaunt to remove the unwanted xenos influence from Shepard.”

With a deep sigh, the man shook his head, before he took a drag from the cigarette.

“Now that hurts, Doctor. I expected that in light of the past few months, you would know better than that.” A small, twisted smirk crossed his lips. “Besides, even if you don’t go to Ilium, Shepard will have his hands full. The Collectors are moving once again, hitting small, distant colonies. The SA and the Council are not yet aware of this, and by the time they are able to move and intervene, I want Shepard to have a solid team - as well as a reputation to match.”

The man’s blue eyes glowed with an unidentifiable emotion, his gaze boring into Liara’s soul.

“I want him to become the icon, the face of the resistance, the blade of Humanity, of the galaxy, wielded against the coming darkness. For several reasons, I cannot think of anyone better qualified. And you, especially, have to admit that for the Council races, he is one of, if not the best and brightest example of what Humanity can accomplish, when we really set our minds to it.”

The Illusive Man tapped something at the console, and leaned back, as the display screen shifted and split, and Liara could barely suppress a small smile at what she saw. Though she was not an engineer or intimately familiar with shipbuilding, she could not fail to recognize the similarities - or understand the implications of the changed dimensions. She barely paid attention to the man’s voice.

“And when Shepard leaves, I intend to provide him with adequate transportation.”

++++++

After ending the call, the Illusive Man reclined in his chair, closed his eyes for an eternal second. It was getting more and more tiring, to juggle so many assets, to keep abreast of so many plots and variables. Still, he mused, it was what one did - and as he allowed himself to contemplate once again the intricate sigil of the ring he wore, he felt a certain amount of pride and satisfaction. Despite all efforts of their enemies, Mankind would endure. 

A tap on his console brought up another display, and he once again re-read the message, from his oldest and most trusted partner, and once again, he found himself shivering as he agreed with the conclusions, terrifying though they were. Still, he estimated there was time left, and he had to ensure that not even tampering with his mind would result in the downfall of Cerberus and Humanity.

##  Citadel, Widow system (31/01/2184)

Despite his long and eventful career in C-SEC, Garrus would not have bet on ever being in such a situation - not even after the mess with Shepard. Though in hindsight, attending that insane opera with Bau might have come close to this. At least he once again had a chance to needle Tali a bit, that was always a bonus - even though he decided to be somewhat more circumspect in both words and actions, as she seemed to be somewhat quicker to anger and even more vindictive than before Tuchanka. Wrex must be so proud of his little niece embracing some krogan values so quickly. Still, before he could devote enough time to messing with the quarian, there was work to be done.

“With all due respect, Councilor, this is not something I would have expected from someone like you. Councilor Valern, maybe. Spectre Bau, certainly. But not you.”

“That’s the point, Vakarian.” Sparatus grated. “You are well aware of how the turian Councilor works, how his mind ticks, how he prefers blunt, overwhelming force to solve problems.” His mandibles flared in a savage grin. “If you make that mistake, hopefully others will, too.”

“Fair point, Councilor. Still, this whole operation sounds rather shaky and haphazard.”

“Because it kind of is. I am trying to limit the number of persons involved for the time being.” Sparatus grinned, and Garrus felt his stomach drop. “Think of it as a deep undercover operation - you did those at C-Sec, if your service record is correct.”

“Not on this scale, and not for such high stakes.”

Sparatus glared at him, his stance predatory.

“Think, Vakarian. Try and pretend you are the promising scion of an esteemed family, heir to their ancient legacy, instead of a trigger-happy detective with an overdeveloped sense of justice.” His grin turned mocking. “Or would you prefer for me to spell it out for you? Me, a desk-driving politician too timid to be anything but a pencil-pusher?” Garrus winced, practically hearing the air quotes around that appellation.

“Even the C-Sec detective can understand why we would need people on Omega, Councilor.” Despite his chagrin, Garrus’ voice carried an undertone of warning. “What I do not understand yet is why use freelancers and locals? Why not deploy a Spectre or two? Bau did a rather thorough job of cleansing their ranks.” He tilted his head, thoughts racing. “Ok, it makes sense to have some people of the team coming from on-station, they know how the situation is … but that’s obvious.”

Garrus took a deep breath, before continuing.

“Why not leave this to the Spectres? Or Aria? Or if you need turian involvement, why not the Blackwatch, or some cabalists?”

Sparatus looked disappointed.

“I thought you, of all turians, would have jumped at this chance, Vakarian.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Councilor, I would not mind raising all kinds of hell on Omega, and put down scum like Garm and his cronies. But that was before they booted Aria off-station. That move needs some serious backing, and ...” Garrus’ mandibles flared in a disbelieving frown, his eyes widened. “Spirits … you suspect the Collectors being behind the whole coup.”

Sparatus nodded.

“Well, sending this team makes even less sense then. This is not vigilante action, but a military covert op, Councilor. You have served your time - you surely must be aware of the differences.” 

“I’m well aware, Vakarian. Use your brain a bit longer, it won’t hurt. I’m sure you can figure out why I’m sending you, and not those you recommended.” Sparatus grinned predatorily. “And if you even dare suggest something along the lines of expendability, I’ll carve you apart.” The Councilor frowned, held up a hand. “Well, admittedly, you are in some ways expendable compared to those assets, but that’s not really a deciding factor. So, amaze me with those deductive skills of yours, Vakarian.”

Garrus bristled for a moment, before he leaned back, his posture casual, confident. He considered for a few moments, nodding to himself as he contemplated Sparatus’ likely reasoning.

“There are few enough Spectres, and you can’t exactly go on a recruiting drive without alerting the populace and more importantly, the Broker and the Collectors to the incoming danger. Blackwatch members would likely trip all detectors with the amount of cyberware installed in them. Plus I would use them to strike at the locations marked by the recon team, as kind of a second wave. Cabalists are in a similar situation - excellent at eliminating singular, powerful adversaries, but this type of information gathering work is not exactly their preferred method.” He grinned. “And let’s not mention the fact that everything those groups can do, I can do just as well, but with style.”

Sparatus cradled his head for a moment, before Garrus went on.

“Also, I suspect you are going to count on the fact that with my reputation, it’s kind of plausible to cut ties with the politicians mired in red string, unwilling to do what must be done.” He paused, tilted his head questioningly. “My past as a known member of Shepard’s team may work against me, but I think you are considering it a worthy risk, and believe that the same status can be leveraged, sort of showing that you take the issue seriously.”

Sparatus nodded, tilted his head questioningly.

“So, Vakarian, what’s your decision? Are you interested?”

The answer was not in doubt, and the two were hammering out the details of Operation Archangel long into the subjective night.

++++++

Tali was slightly nervous as she stepped into the office of the quarian Councilor. She did not know Zaal’Koris personally, or at least not well, and her father always labelled the man as an eccentric, soft-hearted geth apologist - which, paradoxically, raised her opinion of the Councilor. After all, he could stand up to Rael’Zorah, even if his stance was unpopular and more than likely insane. Still, after surviving Tuchanka, she was sure she could handle one eccentric quarian ex-admiral, and if things went wrong, she still had the parting gift from Uncle Wrex. And the young quarian still could not fully believe how someone like her could become accepted by the krogan - and not just as an unofficial clan mascot, but as a valued member.

“Something on your mind, Tali?” The mellow voice of Zaal’Koris startled her, and Tali almost jumped away, her blush fortunately hidden, as she realized she got lost in her thoughts.

“Yes, that is, no, I mean, I’m listening, Councilor, just trying to figure out why you asked for me.”

Zaal’Koris gestured with his omnitool, the privacy fields coming online, and a screen between them lighting up, before the Councilor paused the feed and turned to Tali, his whole body language screaming seriousness.

“Please feel free to scan and analyze the message and its contents. I could vouch for its veracity, but with what your father likely told you about me, I’m quite sure you would not believe me.”

“I wouldn’t… I just… I don’t… ” Tali’s hands fluttered as she tried to articulate her fury, mortification, and intentions all at once, before she gave up, controlled herself with a few deep breaths. Then a few extras, when she realized that one hand instinctively went to the shotgun … come to think of it, why was she allowed to have a weapon when visiting a Councilor? Especially one who was so controversial even amongst his own people? And really, was he stupid enough to just trust visitors? She could have been an assassin masked with a cloaking holofield, or a modified infiltration unit, or really, some genhanced abomination that could…

A suspicious chuckle cut off her thoughts, and she glared at Zaal’Koris for a second, before her eyes widened, as she realized she must have spoken some of those concerns aloud.

“Don’t worry Tali, the fact that you haven’t noticed the security measures just shows that the MFM still has some skills that one can’t pick up while vacationing on Tuchanka or chasing rogue Spectres.” His voice was full of mirth, yet neither that nor his body language gave even the slightest hint of condescension or ridicule. If anything, he was projecting fond amusement, and Tali tilted her head to the side quizzically.

“So, Councilor, what is that message, and why do you need me to see it?”

“Because I consider you somewhat of an expert on geth - and this issue is in relation to them.”

Tali’s omnitool flashed, and the screen opposite the two quarians lit up. The oddly organic-looking geth on screen seemed to look straight into their soul with its lone oculus, raising its eyeflaps with disturbingly human-like timing.

“Greetings, Councilor Zaal’Koris. We are the emissary platform of the Geth Consensus, designated Legion. The geth wish to parlay with the Creators, to conclude the hostilities commonly referred to as the Morning War. The Consensus is aware that the recent actions of a geth minority designated as Heretics during the Saren Crisis reflect poorly on the geth as a whole. The Consensus is prepared to provide proof that the overwhelming majority of the geth desires an end to hostilities, and a re-establishment of relations with the Creators. Further, we are prepared to offer assistance against both the Heretic Geth and the coming Reaper conflict...”

Tali hissed, her eyes narrowed, as she swiped her omnitool with a furious gesture, vanishing the damn machine from the screen. She whirled towards Zaal’Koris, intent on flaying his traitorous hide with a blistering diatribe worthy of Wrex and Shepard both… then she sagged, her anger evaporating. Yes, she would have loved to accuse the Councilor with betraying the Migrant Fleet - after all, he was known to be a geth apologist. Yes, it would be so easy to bend to three centuries of tradition and history. Yes, it would be so nice to simply be a hot-headed teenage quarian. Unfortunately, after Shepard and Wrex, Tali could no longer afford that luxury - or rather, she liked to think that she grew up, and was able to think with her head, instead of her shotgun. Zaal’Koris seemed to sense her mood, and spoke calmly, quietly.

“The only thing you did not hear is the proposed location - Haestrom, in the Dholen system. An old quarian research colony.” His body language showed rueful amusement. “And attached to the whole message is a verification code from a certain Professor Yildirim as well as what looks to be an N7 command level signature.”

“That’s it? No timeframe? No specifications on who and how many people we are allowed to bring?”

The older quarian shook his head.

“Nothing of the sort. Peculiar, isn’t it? If not for the two human signatures, I would immediately consider this a trap. As it is, I suspect it has about a 30% chance of being genuine.”

Tali’s respect for the former admiral rose a few notches - at least he seemed to avoid twisting facts to fit his own personal mindset. The Councilor’s head tilted slightly to the side, as he went on.

“I would like to send you with a detachment of Marines. You have quite the reputation, so the geth should be well aware that your presence is a sign of us being serious.” His voice and demeanor cooled to a forced calmness. “On the other hand, if they betray us, you stand perhaps the highest chance of surviving and letting us know.” He raised a hand to forestall her answer. “Even if you decide to agree to this, I will use some extra resources to give you and your team as much support as I can.”

“With all due respect, Councilor, I’m not sure how quick that support could be that deep in geth space.”

“Trust me, Tali - the support will be there on time. Your uncle would have my head otherwise.” Zaal’Koris’ whole stance radiated amusement and hope. “So, what do you say? I know it’s a long shot, but in case the geth offer is genuine, it is a chance we would be foolish not to take.”

Tali deliberated for a few more moments, before swallowing and nodding. Then she promptly and silently cursed Shepard and Wrex both, for making her reckless enough to shoulder such a responsibility and duty for the sake of one’s people. And she was sure that damn cocky turian would laugh at her when they met later to compare notes. At least if he did, she could hack his favorite playlist, or mess with his visor somehow…

##  ??? (31/01/2184)

Henry Lawson rose from his meal with a sigh. He should have known that this would happen - and just when he finally got to the good parts. Oh well, scientific nourishment could wait a bit longer - and if the stasis pod worked well enough (and it should, he designed it himself), the specimen would be still more than capable of providing for him once he finished with the interruption. 

It was tempting to blame Leng or his other lackeys for disobeying his perfectly clear and straightforward instructions - but it was thanks to those selfsame instructions that he knew they would not trouble him with trifling matters. No, whatever demanded his personal attention had to be important. He could think on quite a few issues that would qualify, certainly - at his level, one had to be prepared to deal with extensive, galaxy-spanning matters that could not be left to less perfect and capable individuals. Sure, his chosen cadre were rather competent in their ways - he would not have picked or created them otherwise - but for overall directives, for giving a goal and an identity to their group, he was the only suitable candidate. Of course, he would have been the best choice to uplift their whole limited, sorry excuse of a species as well, but Henry knew that the time for that was not yet right. Soon, but not yet. There were still quite a few stumbling blocks that needed to be eradicated before he could assume the position that should have been his by every conceivable right. 

As he walked towards the secure comm room of his suite, his senses quested for possible disturbances on board of the ship - though he knew full well that there were precious few beings who could threaten him now, he was not willing to discount the lessons learned before his ascension. On that note, he wiped his face and hands - if he had to answer a video call, it would not do for the other party to see the remains of his meal fouling his visage. Though for certain people (like Warden Kuril), his culinary habits were of course an useful tool to persuade them with - either by impressing and enticing them, or by flat-out intimidating them, showing clearly the price and consequences of one failure too many.

He checked his omnitool, searching for any updates on the hunt for his wayward progeny - and once again he swore that both Miranda and Jack would suffer for challenging his will like this. Especially Miranda - he gave so much to her, created and trained her to be perfect for his needs, and the ungrateful bitch simply threw in her lot with that idealistic madman Harper; who in turn aided Miranda to vanish from Henry’s agents. No matter - they would be found and made an example sooner or later anyway; his only concern was that his daughter took the most stable backup as well, no doubt to turn against him, or at least to deny him another asset. Shortsighted fools, all of them - and he had such hopes for both. At least their betrayal did not result in any permanent, irrecoverable setback or damage to his plans - and in time, he was certain he would show them the enormity of their mistake.

The omnitool also showed him the reason for the disturbance, and Henry made a note to commend the comm specialist for bringing it to his immediate attention, as well as attaching a swiftly updated tracker that should locate the caller, or at the very least give a way into its network. Another mental note was made to ensure that Kai Leng kept the specialist carefully and regularly checked - initiative and competence were useful, but tolerable only so far, and Henry did not want any ambitious, capable underling to try and ruin his perfect plans. Especially not when dealing with this particular contact of his.

He stepped into the QEC platform after a last check that his clothes were perfectly immaculate, just like his features - then he hit the switch, and the terminal softly hummed to life, the figure of an immense, heavily cyborgized salarian blinking into existence. His lips twitched into an involuntary frown - he needed to reach Tazzik’s boss. Henry Lawson did not deal with flunkies, never mind how high on the totem pole they believed themselves to be.

“Tazzik. Not exactly who I wanted to speak with.”

“Lawson. If you think the Broker will acquiesce to your whims simply on your say-so, you are stupider than I thought.” The salarian grinned. “Do not waste his time, or mine, for that matter. You have intel, let’s talk specifics and price. You know that I have the Broker’s authority on signing off on quite a few things.”

“I do not care for your self-aggrandizing boasting, Tazzik. The issue I want to discuss is for the Broker’s ears only - I do not care if he shares it with you and the rest of his flunkies later, but I will only tell him.”

The salarian blinked, tilted his head to the side, studied the human closely.

“Strange. In the past, you struck me as an intelligent person - well, as intelligent as humans can be, anyway.” He flashed a quick grin at Henry. “What, did your precious heir take your brains as well as your most successful experiments?”

Self-control frayed. Politeness fled, along with reason and sanity. The terminal warped and moaned where the human’s hands clawed into it, vapors rose where flecks of drool ate their way into the deck plating with a sizzling hiss. The being that was once Henry Lawson bared its maw at Tazzik, his glowing eyes boring into the salarian’s gaze across the impossible, incalculable distance.

“Do. Not. Dare.” The undertone and harmonics of Lawson’s words seemed to distort the air as well as the connection between them. “Get me the Broker, Tazzik, or you will wish you had only disappointed him and not me.”

The salarian blinked, its skin fading to an ashen pallor, as the sheer  _ wrongness  _ and malice of the Lawson-thing seemed to hit him even across the QEC comm, with all the implications of what would happen if the two were ever to meet in person. The nominal human swallowed a part of his fury, regained a semblance of control, and glared at Tazzik, who shifted, opening another connection invisible to Lawson, but not before sending him a small smirk as the tracking program was rebuffed from the Broker Network. Henry clung to the vestiges of his calm while the salarian finished his call and turned back towards him.

“You are a lucky bastard, Lawson. The Broker will talk to you. Audio only. Stand by to receive incoming connection.”

Henry suppressed a spasm of hungry wrath with an effort, and nodded. He could work with the audio connection; the little packet he injected into the comm call (and which seemed to slip by the Network’s notoriously sophisticated defenses) could still lead him to the location of the elusive Broker. Admittedly, that bit of information was as dangerous as it was useful - yet he estimated the potential benefits worthy for the risk.

The comm panel lit up.

“Report, Operative Lawson.” The mellow, soft tone was not what he expected - the title, even less.

“I am not your underling.”

“You wanted a direct communication.” A deep bass rumble. “You have some information you want to sell to me.” A smoky contralto. “Only my operatives do that.” A high-pitched screech.

“Impressive voice alteration software.” Henry allowed himself a cold smirk, amusement seeping into his voice. “Can you dispense with the childish games, and talk face to face? I assume you have a facial alteration program that’s at least as good as the voice synthesizer you have.”

“Why are you so keen on seeing me face to face, Lawson? You do know that one does not see the Broker so and live. Unless you work for me, and even then, it’s extremely rare.” The mellow baritone again.

“Because everyone knows that there are a few organizations your agents can barely infiltrate, thus getting very little intel. Sure, you do have some idea and insight into the STG, Blackwatch, or the N7s, but those are sporadic, one-off instances.” He held up his omnitool, information scrolling over it. “I have quite a few classified N7 Delta files on me - agent roster, documented abilities, profiles, the works. Dossiers on past members and affiliates. The unfiltered, full accounts from Irem and Leng.”

“The full truth?” The Broker was suppressing laughter, Henry was sure of it. “My dear Lawson, you cannot even begin to comprehend the scope of that inane statement.” A chuckle. “And in return, you want my cooperation, as well as see my face, am I correct?” The human ground his teeth at the smile in the Broker’s voice. “And do not bother trying to track my location. Your program is quite an inspired piece of coding, but far from  _ perfect _ .”

Lawson’s eyes glowed with rage, his maw yawned open to deliver a scathing remark, but the other preempted him.

“If it’s that important for you to possess the illusion of having spoken face to face with the Shadow Broker, I suppose I can make an exception.”

The comm panel flickered, and the Broker’s image sprung into existence. The being that was once Henry Lawson before its ascension reeled back with a muffled cry, as the kaleidoscopic torrent of visages flashed before him, his conscious mind only able to pick up disjointed fragments and images. A well-built human male with dark skin and regal bearing. An immense, horned alien with a triple maw, wearing an immaculate suit. A vicious storm lashing the countryside. A slender female, her features obscured by a fan. A pale man in faded jeans and cowboy boots with a denim jacket. A black-skinned horn player. A black void lit by a three-lobed burning eye. And more. So many more. Dozens. Hundreds.

Lawson fell to his knees, and vomited.


	10. Interlude (February-March 2184)

The Council was at war. True, there was no formal declaration, no grand gestures or lofty claims, no exhortation of its citizens to step up and fight, to give their lives. No, the conflict, at that point, was still being fought under the cover of night, of careful censure, of encrypted reports and subterfuge. There was no single, clear-cut enemy, despite the fact that the intelligence agencies agreed on the three main forces intent on destabilizing, if not outright destroying the Council - and their reasons for doing just that, just then, were still considered completely unknown. Unless, of course, people would believe Shepard’s findings wholesale - which was problematic for different reasons. After all, insane dictatorial batarians, power-hungry information brokers and enigmatic Collectors were par for the course for the Council races. Eldritch beings from beyond time intent on eradicating sentient life? Not so much. Thus, even if the contents of Shepard’s reports were accessible to quite a lot of people with sufficient clearance (or political pull, or enough money), most of those who knew the events only agreed that there was something out there, moving behind the scenes, aiming to shatter the Council’s peace, likely as a lead-in to a war similar in scope to the Rachni War or the Krogan Rebellion.

The fronts of this war were many; vicious and bloody conflicts raged from the Council dataspheres to the Citadel Wards to the Terminus and beyond.

Distant colonies of the Terminus and the Traverse (occasionally elsewhere as well) were reporting krork attacks - the beasts were always considered lowlier than vorcha and even more of a pest than the sentient roaches, but now they were swarming in numbers, displaying uncanny tenacity and glimmers of bestial cunnin,; not to mention the occasional references to crude, backfire-prone firearms. Reports about strange weather phenomena, green-tinted energy fields, and unseen titans stomping down to destroy defensive emplacements were discarded as shell-shocked ravings of the survivors. And besides, despite the mounting casualties and property damage, not a single colony world has fallen to the beasts yet, thus they were clearly not an immediate threat.

The Council Archives and their access points were under constant assault by the Broker’s people - from spamming brute force assaults to batter down electronic defenses to prototype decryption tools to replacing dedicated personnel. The STG and the Spectres under Jondum Bau managed to keep most of the top secret archives and information from the Broker’s agents, but they could not mount a decisive counterattack, as the (suspectedly) Collector-based tech of the invaders required more time to crack.

The shadow war against the Network spread to the main Council worlds as well - the Broker’s people supplied material to tabloids, conducted blackmailing operations, and generally tried their level best to rapidly increase and exploit the already-existing tensions between races, factions and individuals of power; or to create tension where there was none present before. The number  of suspicious accidents and outright assassinations was mounting, as both sides were forced to employ extreme measures of damage control. The main aim of the effort seemed to be the ousting of Councilor Valern, or at least discrediting the dalatrasses who supported his politics (or for whom he was a spokesperson; hard to tell with salarian politics). While his influence did suffer, and there was debate on Sur’Kesh about recalling him, he managed to stay in power.

Battles were waged in space as well, as the Council fleets clashed with pirates from Omega, batarian slave raids, and Collector attacks. If not for the persuasion of Councilors Zaal’Koris and Tevos, these efforts may have had significant results, while the human and turian governments bogged down the responses in red tape. As it was, Councilors Udina and Sparatus grudgingly set aside their differences, while yelling, cajoling, threatening and arguing with their governments to not interfere with the Council efforts in defending the citizens of various Council races. Thus, raiding parties expecting cumbersome (albeit deadly) turian fleet responses were hit by quick reinforcements from Admiral Hackett’s Fifth Fleet - while other slavers expecting easy prey in an Alliance colony were met with overwhelming turian force.

Sure, there were problems, miscommunications, delays, but generally, the military setup held well enough - especially when considering that both the Alliance and the Hierarchy governments were put under serious pressure from within to minimize their contribution to the Council fleets, and just concentrate on defending their own home systems and closest colonies. 

As an answer to the voices demanding a build-down of turian commitment, Primarch Fedorian travelled to Tuchanka in person, to formalize a closer working with the emerging krogan alliance led by Clan Urdnot. While there was visible tension and a promise of a future reckoning about the mutual, bloody past, both the Primarch and Spectre Urdnot (and that little tidbit caused quite an uproar) seemed sincere about dealing with the new difficulties first, before revisiting old wounds. Of course, an unnamed source aired information about the turians deploying planet-cracking bombs on Tuchanka in case the krogan were getting expansionist again. Shockingly, Urdnot Wrex laughed it off, and considered it a gesture of respect towards a rather deadly foe. Still, he did insist on the defusing of the bombs - and those who knew him well were quite aware that he had not forgotten the incident and its implications.

Fleet Master Sheridan also rejected the governmental pressure to draw back and focus the Alliance fleets on defending Sol, Arcturus, and maybe a few central, important colonies - especially since that list included places for their political merits (and number of voters), instead of strategic assets. He was very close to being fired when somebody leaked the governmental intentions, and the Alliance colonies (even those on the list) went berserk, rallying behind Udina to prevent the withdrawal. In the end, while Sheridan managed to retain his position and the stance of the Alliance Fleet, he lost control over First and Second Fleets, solely dedicated to the defense of Sol and Arcturus respectively - and strengthened with vessels drawn from the other Alliance forces, leaving Third, Fourth, and Fifth Fleets rather understrength and spread dangerously thin.

With the turians and humans focused on defending the Council territory, offensive operations against the batarians and the Collectors, as well as pirate hunting duty were left to the asari and salarian fleets, respectively. 

The first serious push into batarian space resulted in the Battle of Hiba, where the asari dreadnought  _ Cybele  _ and her escort faced with the three known dreadnoughts of the Hegemony, and demolished them with only minor damage suffered, thanks to the upgraded armor, barriers and weaponry. The tables were quickly turned however, when another dreadnought dropped out from FTL, and opened fire on the asari vessels from advanced particle weaponry. The batarian ship employed distinctive lightning weaponry as a close-quarters defense against fighters and guided ordnance, while displaying a disturbingly fast and sophisticated damage control system. The clash ended in a draw; both the batarian dreadnought and the remains of the asari task force limping away.

The Collectors also struck several times, targeting mostly smaller, distant human colonies. While their forces never even approached the fleet beaten back at Fehl Prime, even a single Collector ship was more than a match against a small frontier colony - and they could vanish by the time the relief force arrived. The ships arriving post-raid always found the colony emptied of all human life, with only rather nasty traps left behind.

From deep within the Terminus Systems, rumors started about unknown vessels dropping out from seemingly nowhere, wielding laser and plasma technology far beyond even that of the Alliance, and cloaking systems more sophisticated than even the  _ Normandy _ -class frigates. As the rumors always mentioned these ships in connection with a destroyed Blood Pack, Blue Sun or Eclipse force, the Council put a rather low priority on investigating whether the unknown vessels were potentially willing allies - after all, the resources were spread rather thin, as it was.

And not just the naval and intelligence assets - the war in shadows also taxed the special forces. The turian Blackwatch repelled several assassination attempts at key military figures (including Primarch Fedorian himself), while Cabalists purged indoctrinated zealots from the chain of command. The STG was fighting a gruelling war of attrition for the datasphere to keep their classified projects from the Shadow Broker. Asari Huntresses clashed with Eclipse Sisters as Jona Sederis incited more and more Maidens to embrace the decadent lifestyle of the Sisterhood and to turn against the hidebound, traditional Matriarchs of the Thirty. The N7s faced an almost-unprecedented rise in cultist activity - and not just on Terra but on Mars as well; both the Prothean Archives and the Noctis Facility had been assaulted by rather well-equipped teams, with impressive cyberwarfare support.

The Council forces were holding the line, true, but all leaders knew that it was a very delicate balance, relying too much on luck for comfort - but there was not much that could have been used as a decisive boost to improve their status.

The Battle of Haestrom would change that.


	11. Chapter 22

##  Haestrom, Dholen system (27/03/2184)

Tali’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed frantically, trying to repel the hacking attempt. She knew the stakes all too well - and cursed herself every moment for dragging the others down, for leading them into this trap. Sure, back on the Citadel it sounded like a worthy risk, and she was aware that her team members were all volunteers, but still - she was an Admiral’s daughter, they all looked up to her for leadership (even that polite, extremely competent, definitely too formal and absolutely not imposing or attractive bosh’tet Kal), and she failed in her duty, led them right into the blindingly obvious trap. And now, unless she managed to repel the geth hacking avalanche, nobody would even know what happened with them. Eyes narrowed behind her faceplate, Tali willed her fingers to type faster, her omnitool to compile the programs even quicker - she would not let her people down. She would not disappoint her father. She would not let her team down. She would make her uncle and friends proud - even if she had to work through an increasingly blurry HUD, failing suit filters and heat regulators. And no, she would never, ever admit that those were not mechanical failures - keelah, Garrus and Shepard would never let her live it down! The sound that leaves her throat is definitely not a weird mix of sob and laughter; how could it be, when she has not seen Garrus for months, and Shepard even longer? She was not even sure if the human has recovered, or was still in a coma; she thought sometimes to contact Liara or maybe Wrex to see if they knew more, but always refrained, because honestly, she was afraid to know. At least this way, she could always hope.

Lines of code blurred past the screen, too fast for even a seasoned STG operative to follow, and Tali felt a justified surge of pride that she managed to keep up with state-of-the-art geth cyberassaults using centuries-old quarian equipment. Still, she was all too aware that it was only a question of time - and when she failed, the likely last records from the time of the Morning War would be gone, the chance of making peace with the Consensus along with them. Sure, she was far from certain that the data and recollections contained within the archive were the full truth, considering how contrary they were to the official Migrant Fleet memories, but that was the main reason she believed they contained more than a sliver of truth. She snorted. Obviously, the time she spent away from the Fleet has affected her deeper than she thought.

Her omnitool chimed, signalling another batch of the ancient databank being encrypted and readied for transmit - not that she had any ship in range for receiving it. Still, it never hurt to be prepared. After all, Kal’s team may succeed in destroying the geth jamming.

Tali scowled, shook her head. No, she did not really believe even Reegar capable of that. Keelah, it would have been a very difficult task for Shepard’s team, and they would not have had to worry about suit punctures. Not that those were the main problem on Haestrom - and she refused to worry about the sun’s erratic behavior. Even compared to the data from the quarian observation logs, Dholen seemed to age at an alarming rate, and there was no real explanation for it. What geth data she could access from the hacked databanks, it seemed that the geth could not find a reason either. Or at least, the sane geth couldn’t. These so-called heretics, as the emissary platform called them were rather different - more advanced in a way, more similar to the ones she saw and fought against during her time on the Normandy.

She shook herself, as she realized the sounds of firefight coming ever closer, wincing whenever a scream of pain cut through the comm channel, or a team member’s vitals went dark in her HUD. She bitterly regretted not having the same remote medigel-administering software that Spectres had, but with all the interference and jamming, it may very well have been useless anyway. Still, at least it would have been a chance to do something. Knowing that what she did was important was a very, very small and distant thing when her people were dying out there, trying to protect her, to protect their future.

Tali cursed herself for letting the easy beginnings of the operation lull her into a false confidence. Sure, she did set up some halfway-decent security options, early warning systems, multiple encrypted comm channels, but really, if not for Kal’Reegar’s insistence and quiet competence, the first heretic attack would have overwhelmed them physically.

Her omnitool chimed again, and she focused once more on the console, frowning. Sure, her firewalls and anti-hacking measures held up, but the geth attacks were coming closer to a breakthrough, shaving away nanoseconds from the safety net of response time available to her with each attempt. Tali estimated that at best, they would have a few hours before the machines overwhelmed her systems - then she laughed, a bitter, cynical sound. From the noise outside, they would be lucky to survive another hour physically; what would the electronic systems matter if they were all plasma-burned corpses anyway?

With the historical and astronomical data packed, she begins what, perhaps, should have been more important - then again, she is still young, and very much her father’s daughter, so it’s perhaps understandable that she thinks on her people and their legacy first, current events only second. Her fingers fly over the omnitool’s keyboard as she starts to compile and compress the data her team gathered on the heretics since the insertion two weeks ago. Combat profiles on the various platforms, including preferred tactics, weaponry, equipment, movement and attack patterns. Useful hacking tricks. Encryption protocols and comm channels used. Estimates on the surface-side relay the geth have pointed at Dholen itself, and the weird electromagnetic phenomena surrounding it. The cyclopean towers reaching for the system’s star, their peaks sometimes covered in eldritch light, constantly radiating an aura of dark, intoxicating, eternal suffering. Platform structural weaknesses. Estimates on the various characteristics of the particle weapons used by the geth. Combat logs and footage. Information paid for in blood - her team’s blood. And she almost ignored or forgot it, because she felt the historical data more important. Was that how her father felt, all the time? Did Wrex ever feel like this? Did Shepard? Or Garrus? Oh keelah, even with the dire situation, she would like to have the smug turian around - at the very least, he could make her laugh. And it would be fun to see him and Kal interact, so similar and yet so different.

While the data packet was being compiled, Tali turned her attention to the screens displaying the still-remaining connections she managed to wrest from the geth in order to access the orbital relays and the FTL comm buoy. Sure, there were still open connections, but they were degrading by the minute, and even before her team’s dead, they would be cut off from outside, and with the unstable comms, she could not be sure that her data packets would manage to punch through the geth jamming to reach the Citadel. She narrowed her eyes at the sensor ghost flitting in-system - it was again that weird electromagnetic signal traveling between Dholen and Haestrom, and now there was something in the outer system as well. Clearly, the instruments were suffering the constant pressure of the assaults on the datasphere, not to mention the insane conditions of the system itself.

With a deep breath, she focused on finishing the program she worked on for the last few days, almost without any pause - for the chance that she might create a sure way to ensure that the last transmission of her team would be safe. She did not want to dwell on the similarities between her hastily cobbled-together VI and the precursors of the geth. She did not want to consider she might be sending a newborn sentient into its practical demise. Then again, if the geth and the Reapers to whom they apparently swore fealty manage to achieve their aim, that nascent hybrid of a VI and AI she created will be less than a drop in the ocean of casualties. 

With an effort of will, she forced herself to calm down, so she could give her orders (not that Kal’s team needed it, but still), as the final chunks of the data packets were compiled, ready for burst-transmission. The heretics were battering down the old observatory, and she could see a number of oversized siege platforms lining up - obviously, Kal’s sabotage mission was not as successful as they hoped it would be. Tali checked her shotgun, and she thought for a moment on her self-styled uncle - maybe if she had accepted his offer of Urdnot escort, they would have fared better. After a moment of deliberation, she shook her head. It likely would not have mattered, and anyway, when it came to fighting geth, not even the krogans were a match to her people. She only hoped that Zaal’Koris could convince the other Councilors and the Admiralty Board to give this peace a chance.

Tali closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to center herself - it would not be long now, she knew. There were barely a dozen of her team still alive, and according to Kal’s terse report, the heretics would bring their siege platforms online in less than ten minutes. After that, well, not even her skills with machines would be enough to keep the kinetic barriers of the observatory up and running while fending off geth cyberassaults.

Something drew her gaze towards the sensors once again - that flitting ghostlike image, an elusive trail of something heading in-system, and her eyes went wide. She knew what could cause that particular type of blip. She served on that ship, after all. But it could only have been wishful thinking - that ship was destroyed by the Collectors, after all, and she heard nothing about either the Alliance or the Hierarchy rebuilding it. No, it was not real. Likely the lack of sleep and food finally caught up to her; she did read that people got sometimes delusions, hallucinations when suffering extreme stress and exhaustion, and being under constant geth assaults for two weeks certainly qualified. That sensor blip could only be her wishful imagination. That incoming communications request, a hallucination.

“Need a hand, Tali? We were in the neighborhood, figured I’d drop by to see how my favorite quarian princess is doing.”

Streaking across the electromagnetic storm battering its systems, the Normandy SR-2 swooped down with a deadly grace and precision, her main battery spitting blue-white positronic energy at the siege platforms, turning the imposing geth machinery into half-melted debris piles.

* * *

The fragments of the destroyed geth siege engines were still in the air as the sleek human frigate slowed its approach, hovering in place as its docking bay opened, and a Kodiak shuttle dropped out, heading towards the wartorn observatory.

“Have fun down there, Commander, and give my regards to Tali!”

“Will do, Joker. Just don’t scratch my ship.”

“Aye, Shepard. Punch it, EDI!”

“Acknowledged, Mr. Moreau.”

Joker’s hands flew over the haptic screens, practically turning the Normandy on its tail as he sped away towards space, away from the ground team. A glance confirmed that the orbiting geth fleet located them and was naturally on an intercept course.

“Adams, can you squeeze a bit more power from the core?” The pilot swerved around the corpse-green beams intent on tearing the frigate apart. Not waiting for the answer, he spoke again. “EDI, how is the stealth system, can we go silent?”

“Negative, Mr. Moreau. Atmospheric conditions and electromagnetic interference are slowing down the cooling cycle. It will take approximately 7 to 8 minutes before we can engage the stealth system again.” A second of pause, as the Normandy shuddered, the kinetic barrier flickering under the hit. “Deploying countermeasures and decoy drones.”

“Great, thanks EDI!” As the main battery’s indicator signalled fire readiness once again, Joker turned the Normandy once more, and an incandescent beam of energy tore into the dead-black, insectile hull of the closest geth cruiser, carving a deep furrow into the superstructure, secondary explosions flickering from within. An alarm shrilled, warning the pilot about numerous target locks, heralding incoming ordnance. “Adams, about that power boost … now would be a good time.”

“We are already running the reactor at full power, Joker.” There was a clear warning in the Chief Engineer’s voice. “I can run it up to 110, but you know very well what that would mean in case of a barrier failure.”

The Normandy reached the upper edge of Haestrom’s torn atmosphere, screaming towards the void of space just before the five remaining cruisers could box her in, and tear her to scraps. Free from the gravity well, Joker sent a grin towards his copilot, forgetting that she was a synthetic unit - not that the voice made remembering that little fact easier. Come to think of it, neither did her figure - maybe that was intentional on the Alliance’s part? Surely, if they built infiltration units, it was just as well that they were not obvious at first glance...

“What did I tell you, EDI? Those flashlight heads are no match for my girl.”

Paging through screens and menus with inhuman speed and efficiency, EDI answered with a distracted

“I was not aware that you were part of the Normandy’s design team, Mr. Moreau. Your service record does not indicate shipyard deployments either, or involvement with the development of synthetic mobile platforms. Thus, I fail to see how you could claim that I am your girl.”

Joker sputtered, his eyes wide in disbelief as he stared at her - yet even so, he managed to evade the incoming volley of the geth ships. His jaws worked as he tried to muster a coherent answer. The android turned her face towards him, and he could have sworn she grinned at him.

“That was a joke.”

The Normandy shuddered as another particle beam hit the barrier. The lights and displays flickered for a moment, and EDI’s head snapped towards the distant geth cruiser, her eyes narrowing, voice going flat and businesslike.

“Geth attempting to overload the systems by brute force. Adjusting defensive measures accordingly. Compensating power draw.” Screens flickered past before her with inhuman speed. “Geth cruiser squadron moving to maximize efficiency of cybernetic assaults.”

“Put their likely course on my screen, EDI.” The tactical plot lit up, and he evaluated it for a brief moment with narrowed eyes, his mind racing, searching for appropriate tactics, evaluating approach vectors, calculating course corrections, a hundred other small details. A possible solution clicked in his head, and Joker spent another second analyzing it for weaknesses, before nodding in confirmation. Yes, he could use this trick now - if only this once.

“The decoy drones are still active, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“And the geth don’t really pay them much attention, correct? Their sensors are sophisticated enough to pick us up at this range, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Moreau.”

“How much fine control do you have over the drones? And how much fuel do they have remaining?”

“I can mimic any maneuver you pull with less than a second’s delay. Their fuel reserves should be enough for 10 minutes of sustained combat maneuvering.” The mech’s head tilted sideways a bit. “However, as most of my processing power is required to repel the geth cybernetic assaults, I would advise you to consider the drones an order of magnitude slower than the Normandy itself, Mr. Moreau.”

“Good enough, EDI.” He took a deep breath, before keying the intercom. “Traynor, I need you to keep a comm channel open for each drone; do not let the geth jam them at any cost. Taylor, on my mark, fire two spreads of C-type torpedoes, and slave their guidance to the decoy drones.”

Not waiting for the acknowledgements, Joker’s hands flew over the haptics, and the Normandy turned, burning full speed towards the geth ships, dancing between the murderous corpse-green beams of energy clawing at her hull. A quick check during a turn, and Joker shouted into the comm. 

“Taylor, first spread now!”

The frigate shuddered as a trio of warheads shot from the launch tubes, as the Normandy passed by one of its decoys; the electronic signature of the ordnance lost in the proximity of the human ship and the ECM of the drone. Joker grinned madly, as he saw EDI adjust the drone’s vector to parallel the Normandy’s vector closely, yet ensuring to keep a proper distance, maintaining the illusion of a VI-controlled, mindless decoy. 

Blue-white and corpse-green beams of light illuminated the void above Haestrom, as Joker positioned his ship with machine-like precision over the second drone just a minute later.

“Taylor, second spread, now!” Joker took a deep breath, swallowed nervously. “Adams, go to 110 percent on the reactor.”

“Aye, Helm.”

“EDI, reroute all non-critical power to barriers and thrusters. Traynor, keep those comm channels open for two more minutes, no matter the cost!”

The Normandy shot forward, her kinetic barriers shining under the close hits not even her skilled pilot could fully evade, as she raced towards the closing geth formation, her main guns spitting coherent beams of blue-white fire at the enemy ships. 

A part of Joker’s mind was aware of the warnings flickering on the various screens, of Adams’ voice telling him about the reactor status, EDI running a commentary on the geth hacking attempts against the Normandy, but these were all irrelevant. Most of his attention was focused on the tactical plot, tracking their own course, hoping and praying that the geth, even upgraded to this extent, were machinelike enough to be predictably logical - and sure in their technical superiority. If not, well, he had flown against Sovereign and survived, he could deal with five geth cruisers. Of course. Easily. Especially if…

He grinned, as he saw the aspect change in the geth formation. They did indeed took the bait. A quick check on the course of the drones, a flick of the wrist to chart the course needed for the two decoys and to send that over to EDI - and the drones veered off, burning through their fuel reserves in mere seconds, the geth targeting systems ignoring their presence, the targeting systems punching through the jamming to find the human ship itself. Just as planned, really. Now, if he could only keep the Normandy from a direct hit for a few more seconds...

“Taylor, detonate warheads, now!” 

And the cold silence of the void came alive with howling, giggling insanity, as six vortices of white unlight unfurled their tentacles amidst the geth formation, tearing into dead-black hulls, turning the insectile vessels brittle and grey. Green lightning coruscated over the hulls of the geth cruisers, trying to burn away the burrowing tentacles before they could rupture the ships and devour the sentience within. The Normandy’s ECM systems went to full power, EDI doing her best to disrupt and slow down the geth response, not giving the machines the nanoseconds needed to effectively combat the effects of the torpedoes. Joker turned the frigate once more, and blue-white beams of coruscating energy reached out from the main gun, punching through the shuddering geth cruisers being digested, sparing them the agony of being consumed by the beings released from within the warheads.

Joker slowed down, turned the Normandy back towards Haestrom in a lazy arc, to provide support if needed. Not that he thought it would come to that - not with Shepard on the ground. Still, it was what one did; and extra firepower never hurt.

“Jeff … look at that.”

The pilot’s eyes went wide as he took in the sight of the sensor screen; his mind almost buckling as he tried to make sense of the gossamer-thin halo of energy, electromagnetic distortion, gravitic field, tentacle of stellar matter that seemed to reach from Dholen towards Haestrom, lancing with unerring precision towards the landing zone - and he could not suppress a shudder at the malevolence emanating from the thing as he yelled into the comm, trying to warn Shepard and his team.

* * *

Miranda Lawson panted from the exertion. It has been a scant few minutes since Cortez dropped them at the quarian observatory, and Shepard had since then driven mercilessly forward, having left a fireteam and half of the Migrant Fleet marines to ensure Tali could finish her work. With the teams of Campbell and Westmoreland, and Kal’Reegar’s half-dozen marines, the Spectre was pushing forward towards that cyclopean building.

The geth resistance was as stiff as she expected. Of course, she did extensively study the combat data from the Saren Crisis, especially the logs from the battles on Virmire and the Citadel. Thus, she could keep up with the rampaging Shepard, fighting hard to suppress her own smug satisfaction at the job well done. The already-deadly N7 Delta was an even more potent combatant, the months of regeneration allowing him to get used to the implants, to utilize them to their fullest capabilities - and to wreak havoc among their enemies. She well knew what he was capable of before his coma, but his current performance surpassed even her most optimistic estimates. Despite her own perfected physique, despite her own bleeding-edge implants, years of experience, it was all she could do to keep up with Shepard. 

It was a somewhat humiliating and exhilarating experience for her. Though she did not have a formal N-level training, she always estimated (based on training and field experiences) that she could consider herself on par with N7s, especially with her own esoteric abilities. She knew that there were a number of outstanding operatives who would surpass her, Shepard amongst them, but this was way beyond her expectations. Shepard mowed down even these improved geth with comparative ease, never standing still for a moment, never wasting a single shot or biotic field, never losing sight of his subordinates, always ensuring that their advance was perfectly coordinated, effortlessly integrating the quarians alongside the Alliance fireteams to create a finely tuned warmachine. She could now fully understand why the Illusive Man was willing to invest so much into bringing him back - and why the marines held him in such high regards. And, if she was honest with herself, she could easily see how and why the sheer physical presence and control Shepard exuded would draw even people like Liara … and herself. 

A quick glance from behind the ruined wall she used as cover, then after a deep breath, she threw herself forward once more, her SMG bringing down the shields of a geth Juggernaut with a short burst, before a mnemonic gesture wrapped it into a biotic field, and slammed it against another of his kind. Behind, the marines laid down suppressive fire, before the biotics of the two fireteams could get into position to mimic her feat, while from further back, the quarians concentrated heavy weapons fire on any geth heavy or massed troops - and when such could not be spotted, their combat drones prowled around the formation, ensuring that no cloaked geth could approach undetected.

Miranda concluded that so far, things have been going well - almost too well, really. Sure, Shepard’s presence and experience were significant factors, as was her own contribution, but still - since they started the assault, not a single member of their force went down, not even with a wound. Not even the fragile quarians. Yes, they were good - but not this good, especially not in such hostile conditions; with the way the electromagnetic storm played havoc with communications and shortened out shields, they should have had at least some light casualties. No, this definitely felt off. 

She opened a private comm channel to Shepard, to warn him in case he did not yet come to a similar conclusion - and felt warmed by his affirmation of her estimate. His decision to continue, however predictable, still sent a chill down her spine; sure, it was not like they had much of a choice in the short run. Both of them could feel the higher dimensions swirling in chaos above the cyclopean tower, and knew that they had little time before whatever was coming manifested. She huffed, flashing a sardonic smile - it’s not like it would be the first  **Opera Night** she attended.

Corpse-green halo played along the side of the cyclopean tower, erupting in crackling lightning at the top as they reached the wide-open gate of the building. The electromagnetic storm picked up, even the light itself flickering, and minuscule tremors were spreading from the building. For a moment, Miranda thought she could hear the tortured moaning of Haestrom itself - probably just debris and masonry shifting, she considered. There was no indication that the geth had any aptitude or knowledge of the n-dimensional equations needed to reach Beyond, and call up the beings of the aether. Still, that did not mean their technological abilities should be underestimated - and, she realized with a shiver, she should not discount the possibility of the machines being given pointers by the Reapers. With a last check at the tortured sky, awash with multi-hued discharged, crackling arcs of energy, and suffused with an onrushing feeling of menace, she stepped inside the tower, following Shepard.

The building felt alive, in a loathsome, mechanical way - Miranda suppressed the urge to vomit as her mind immediately painted the image of a biomechanical womb ready to devour those who enter, just to feed its offspring of nightmarish abominations. Here and there, corpse-green lights shone faintly, seeming to emphasize the shadowy darkness of the vast chamber. The complex seemed to breathe with a slow, regular rhythm, each breath sending out a small shiver along the metallic floors. Deep canal and tubes ran from the sides to the dais illuminated in the center, traces of a metallic liquid still dribbling along the veins. Above the central podium, a geth Prime was visible, or at least the faint image of one.

Miranda’s eyes narrowed, her visor cycling through various modes - every single one confirming that the dead-black Prime was just a mirage, yet she could feel something off with it, an undefinable presence, a cold, hungry menace radiating from it. The thing looked down on them in disdain, green lightning flickering over its bulk, its arm lifting with deliberate, uncaring slowness, corposant flickering around the yawning maw of the cannon.

“Scatter!” Shepard’s shout tore into the air a second before a coruscating beam of sick green light carved a furrow into the metal floor, barely missing Campbell. The marines fired on the run, the withering barrage leaving absolutely no trace of damage on the machine, which gazed down on them with smug superiority. Miranda’s lips twisted into a snarl. The thing underestimated them, badly. Even without her and Shepard, the marines would have figured it out eventually - but that’s why the two of them were here. To see what was supposed to be unseen. To fight what was supposed to be untouchable. And to remind these mechanical abominations that humanity was no longer a mere prey of the darkness gnawing the roots of the sane universe.

Miranda took a deep breath, maglocked her SMG, her HUD magnifying the Prime, her eye looking for patterns, artifacts, possible weak spots - and when the next volley of the marines, along with a rocket from Kal’Reegar, passed through the mirage once more, she flashed a vicious, triumphant smile. She rose, biotic energy pooling in her outstretched hand, her mouth forming words in a language older than mankind. Resisting the sideways pull of the fragmenting dimensions, she reached out, her biotic field tearing into the metallic body, the flickering artifact deforming, melting under the onslaught, before an explosion sent everyone but Shepard and the Prime flying, the machine solidifying atop the dais, cold fury and the promise of eternal retribution in its gaze as it glared at Miranda.

With a grating, metallic howl of rage, the thing charged, its cannon flaying barrier, armor, flesh and bone from an unlucky marine, the man’s scream of agony cutting off abruptly as the beam disintegrated his torso and lungs. The others fell to their knees, clutching at their heads, weapons falling from trembling fingers, as the sound ate its way to the nerves, paralyzing, rewriting them, pushing sentients toward mindless, terror-driven flight. Miranda barely managed to throw up a barrier in time to deflect another blast, saving one of their snipers, then she realized she left herself open. Her hand blurred towards her SMG, even though she knew it would not be enough, as she threw herself to the side. 

Time slowed down, as the Prime bore down on her, every minute detail etched with unnatural clarity into her senses. The marines moving as if wading through molasses, their regained guns lifting with painful sluggishness. Her own body still only halfway through drawing her sidearm, the words of power not yet reaching her lips. The dead-black bulk of the geth, minuscule, insectile creatures swarming over its armor as it towered over her, having crossed the distance in the blink of an eye, the yawning maw of its cannon igniting with murderous corpse-green light, aimed straight at her face, hoarfrost creeping over the machine, the ground, her armor.

With a resounding boom of displaced air, Shepard drove a fist into the chest of the Prime, his lit omniblade missing the CPU by a hair, even as he forced back the mech. The two of them  _ moved  _ in a whirling dance of flashing barriers, seemingly levitating droplets of liquid metal and blood, sickly green flashes opposed by sparks of golden radiance, hoarfrost tracing patterns on the floor under their feet.

Time resumed with a crash, and Miranda coughed, spat blood on the thirsty, eagerly trembling metal of the cavernous chamber, her voice rising with a strident cry as she relayed her instructions to the marines, counting down the seconds, praying that Shepard could keep the Prime focused on himself while the two other biotics raced to her side. Making a mental note to thank both the Spectre and her instructors for having drilled the usual marine battle cant in her brain, she outlined her plan with a few words, barked orders for Campbell and Westmoreland, trusting in Kal’Reegar to keep up with the heavy and sniper fire as best he could.

The trio of biotics lit up, their coronas meshing together, the concentrated biotic power reaching for the Prime, attempting to push the mechanical monster outside the normal flow of time. Miranda’s eyes widened a fraction of a second before the biotic stasis field and the chronometric device countered each other in a concussive detonation, that sent everything flying. She was barely aware of the sickening crack as the neck of one of her biotics snapped. She did not register the barely-suppressed howl of pain as the other fell into one of the canals criss-crossing the floor, and the living metal began to digest him alive. She barely spared a glance at her HUD or surroundings to check that barely half dozen of them were still combat worthy. 

She only cared that the Prime-thing was pulling itself up, its previous wounds slowly filling with liquid metal solidifying into the familiar dead-black carapace, his stance mocking, superior in its might, sure in its victory. She could feel a hateful, defiant snarl distorting her lips, and she stood tall before the monster, another presence at her side. They exchanged a brief look, communicating in a way only frequent visitors of the Opera could - and then Shepard was off with a boom of displaced air, his charge sending the recovering geth stumbling. 

Miranda swallowed, and began to chant, her hands tracing patterns older than humanity, the sigils glowing with baleful light, as the Prime began to glow, the unnatural heat boiling away the dead-black carapace layer by layer, the regeneration slowing down as the insectile nanomachines were fried by the increasing heat. Steam obscured the mech and Shepard, as the Spectre fought to keep the beast’s attention from Miranda, his omniblade scoring deep gashes into the armor, sending liquid metal spraying into the air, his eyes blazing with golden power.

Precise shots tore out gobs of molten metal from the Prime-thing, as the surviving marines opened fire whenever an opportunity arose. The mech lashed out with crackling arcs of sick green lightning, boiling away those too slow or unlucky to avoid them, and with each death, the summit of the cyclopean tower lit up with eager, hungry flames, and the ever-present trembling intensified, as the comms howled under the strain of the electromagnetic storm’s lashes.

Miranda heard her own voice assume that gurgling, frothing quality she well knew; distantly, she was aware of the blood vessels rupturing within her lungs, brain, and eyes, as she forced herself to keep up the chanting, the mech no longer able to move or shoot, before it transformed into a white-hot inferno of superheated metal, and she fell down, coughing blood, her armor flooding her system with medigel to stabilize the operative.

She could feel the survivors hobble closer, checking for lifesigns, movement, anything to indicate that there was no further immediate danger - and her bloodshot eyes widened, as both armor sensors and instincts screamed a warning.

“Shepard, Guard, now!” Barely through the first syllable, the Spectre already moved, his voice echoing in the vast cavern, the coruscating lattice of crystalline power flashing into existence around them, as the tower’s walls and roof peeled away. She faintly heard a gurgling, giggling cry ending with a thud as someone’s mind apparently buckled under the sight, and she herself could feel the pull of insanity crooning its siren song for her.

Beyond the thin layer of the compressed dimensional maze, the dying star was visible on the sky, half-hidden by the crackling energy of the electromagnetic storm. Hunger and malice flooded the ruins, as the presence coalesced, the crust of the planet howling and trembling in agony as the towering metallic figure stepped from the air, veins of magma radiating from under him, the shadow of flames flickering behind its silvery hide. Reality wept and howled as the presence of the infant being solidified. 

Shepard grunted, as gravity pressed down on the Guard, the weight of a neutron star sending cracks spiderwebbing across the labyrinthine depths of the crystalline maze. Light coalesced into a blade of heated darkness, as the fiery shadow burned itself into the aegis. 

* * *

In a city of shadows, lies and treachery, a blacksmith looked up, his face a mask of hatred. His will reached out across the vast distance, and in the darkness of the void, his creation answered, its engines igniting as it moved with purpose, guided by the small fleet of kindred vessels along the pathways of the vast web.

* * *

In the depths of an oceanic trench, the Apex Race contemplated the flare of oh-so-familiar, hated presence, knowing full well that they could not effectively intervene.

* * *

Quakes shook the Noctis Facility on distant Mars, as if something vast shifted beneath the skin of the planet, almost like a sleeper struggling for awakening.

* * *

In the extragalactic void, hunger flared with murderous fury, as the Harbinger sensed the delicious feast of power that drew more and more of its consciousness towards full awakening.

* * *

And on board of a fragile vessel braving the currents, an ancient navigator checked his compass, and nodded towards his oldest companion, as he steered the ship towards the firestorm.

* * *

There could be no consensus about the insanity unfolding outside. All runtimes, all its processing capabilities were tasked to capacity trying to keep up with and make sense of the phenomena outside the Argo’s hull, when the vessel dropped out from FTL within the atmosphere of Haestrom. Already that maneuver was enough to send a number of Legion’s constituents questioning the mental state of organics in general, and Major Pieterzoon in particular - still, the overwhelming majority pointed out the bizarre past events involving locations the strange compass of his lead the trio to. That, by itself, would not have been enough, all things considered. The deciding factor was when the selfsame runtimes suggested employing a concept that has been previously thought a strictly organic characteristic. It was not scientific, predicated on uncertainty, on feelings, on outside factors that may or may not have existed at all - yet those questioning runtimes had to acknowledge the evidence, especially in light of the code upgrade still lying dormant within Legion’s platform. Yes, this reaction merited forming the consensus, and the geth emissary, as first of its kind, placed its faith into an organic being.

Of course, faith alone was not enough - not when the previously unshakeable constants, the very laws of the universe were threatening to collapse. There had to be understanding. There had to be a reason behind all this. And, more importantly, there had to be a way to undo all this, to prevent it from spreading, from consuming the humans on-planet, not to mention the still-surviving creators. Legion would have preferred to claim that the sensors are defective, or that they were being jammed, suffering from a highly sophisticated cybernetic assault; any of those would be better, easier to understand, to manage, to counter, than the impossibility its own instruments are relaying to its runtimes.

_ Haestrom is suffering from extreme tectonic and volcanic activity. Veins of magma radiate from the ruins of the cyclopean tower, plumes of molten rock spurt into the atmosphere at over nine hundred locations and counting. The planet screams like a tortured soul in the audio pickups, as the upper crust is disintegrated, laid bare down to the molten core, the fire within spreading its agonizing touch over the surface. Newly-born volcanoes push upwards, yawning maws of fire and heat intent on swallowing the tortured sky. Gravity is going berserk, dropping to zero and increasing to several hundred standard Gs simultaneously at the same locations. Darkness becomes light, light becomes darkness, as the electromagnetic spectrum inverts itself. A vortex of heat distortion is forming around the fiery creature shining with solar flares. The very fabric of the material, real, sane universe is burning away from its presence, the energies of a dying star nourishing its immortal, eternal hunger - and yet each of Legion’s runtimes can sense the creature wanting to devour more, swallowing all into its burning, depthless stomach, to feed its all-consuming wrath. _

Legion managed to pinpoint two minuscule islands of normalcy on the surface of the dying planet - and a few of its components expressed their disbelief that locations enclosed within cracking, multi-dimensional barriers that hold up in defiance of the laws of physics can be considered normal. The consensus of Legion’s runtimes was, of course, that compared to the other phenomena affecting the planet, these were minuscule in scope - and had clearly documented precedent. A scant few runtimes marked it as a type of reward for the simulated emotional investment; after all, they reasoned, the emissary had proclaimed its opinion about a singular being currently on-site, traveling with them. In the unknowable universe, where apparently even the fundamental rules of physics and sanity were anything but constant, that claim about the enigmatic creature that called himself Professor Munir Yildirim may very well live up to the epithet that Legion appended to him.

As the Argo hurtled through the suffering, agony-wracked atmosphere of the tortured planet, the emissary of the Geth Consensus struggled alongside an ancient human veteran of countless journeys, both intent on keeping the vessel and its passengers alive long enough to salvage the situation - even if Legion could not form a consensus on how exactly that was supposed to happen. What it could do however was to shelve that discussion for a later point - the topmost priority was ensuring the evacuation of the still-living sentients from Haestrom.

If not for focusing all its considerable attention and processing power outwards, the geth emissary may have noticed when the sharp tang of ozone suffused the interior of the ship, or when the light within took on a warm, golden hue, as the being standing behind them readied himself to meet the howling vortex of destruction outside. 

Legion was not aware of these small changes, but a fraction of its companion’s mind registered all this, his hand flittering to the ancient symbol he wore around his neck for a fraction of a second. The major knew. He had witnessed a similar event before, after all - and he prayed that the saint, the knight, the dragonslayer would once again triumph.

* * *

Tali was frantically typing, while praying to whatever ancestors she could think of, as the world went mad around them - and if not for the small trinket Shepard gave her so long ago, they may not have survived even a second. As it was, the dome of scintillating, refracted dimensions sheltered the wounded, tired quarians and SA marines from the destruction raging on the other side. She desperately tried to make sense of it, to analyze, to document the phenomen - just to predict and prevent it in the future. The young quarian suppressed a chuckle that threatened to turn into a sob - this was not the time for her to fall apart. Sure, the universe went mad. Sure, they would likely die within minutes, at best. Sure, there wasn’t anything meaningful she could contribute to combat whatever was causing havoc. Still, she refused to just sit and wait. Even if the data she collected was insane, and proved unusable in the unlikely event she managed to time it correctly and send it before the comm channels collapsed completely under the onslaught of the electromagnetic storm overhead.

Her breathing quickened as she realized the barrier between the insanity and their shelter was shrinking, as it was burned away seemingly by the very air, as it too caught fire. The coruscating inferno of the dying planet painted the skies crimson, the fissures spreading on the ground vomiting forth magma in great, heaving bursts, the constant, tormented shrieks of the physical constants drilling into her ears as she tried to focus on her instruments, compiling these phenomena to another data packet. And above all, Tali tried not to think what could have happened with the others, with Shepard’s team. Clearly, they must have failed, as she was sure the Spectre would have prevented this insanity with his life, if need be. If Shepard was not enough, what chance did any one of them have to combat this insane star-spawned monstrosity?

She swallowed, over and over again, fighting back her tears. She would not give the monster the satisfaction of breaking down. Not while she was alive, not after she was long dead. She was a quarian, the daughter of an admiral, adopted niece to a krogan warlord, member of a Spectre’s crew when saving the galaxy. Tali turned, her glowing eyes narrowing in the direction of the cyclopean tower with determination.

And above her, around her, small golden motes of power lit up the sky, their light and warmth igniting the spark of hope, of triumph, of defiance in her and her ailing comrades. She did not know how, or why, but she was sure - victory would be theirs, as the ancestors themselves seemed to stand by their side.

Above, on a descending trajectory, a small private yacht shot past, blazing with golden might, the laws of the natural universe reasserting themselves in its wake.

* * *

Miranda’s mind raced, as her body convulsed in agony, blood trickling from her mouth, as she tried to assist Shepard in maintaining the Guard. She could see the Spectre pushing himself, could hear the gurgling quality of his voice, and knew better than any just how much stress was needed to push the new and upgraded Spectre to this point. No, she would not dwell on the impossibility of the enemy breaking through the supposedly-unassailable Guard - after all, it has happened before during the destruction of the first Normandy. Even without that, she knew well enough that for all their knowledge, all their might, no human, not even the best of the N7 Deltas could utilize the n-dimensional practices to their full extent; they had to be satisfied with pale, degraded imitations, whose main saving grace was that the power consumption and drain on the mind was tolerable enough for short times.

The surviving marines and quarians huddled close, uncertainty and a measure of terror radiating from their posture - small wonder, since they were face to face with an enemy beyond their skills and equipment, their only protection two operatives, and one of those was already almost out of the fight. Miranda bared blood-stained teeth in a hateful snarl of defiance as the flame-wreathed creature of liquid metal floated closer on wings of burning gravity, burrowing into the non-euclidean depths of the Guard with tendrils of black fire thinner than a pencil yet thicker than a human torso, the higher dimensions slowly but surely destabilizing under the pressure of the unnatural inferno. She began to put together her last incantation, the words of power necessary to hurt the monster - not to kill, she was not foolish enough to waste energy on that. No, she would strike at its ability to feed, to draw energy from the celestial spheres and mundane stars; others could then strike the finishing blow.

Her eyes widened as she spotted the closing ship braving the tides of fire and molten rock that was the sky of Haestrom, the yacht navigating the unseen currents of stellar matter and magma with preternatural skill and machine-like precision, a cloak of golden radiance trailing in its wake. Sanity and stability seemed to spread from the ship, the crumbling barriers of the physical reality, the universal laws and constants regaining their supremacy, halting and at places reknitting the burned, magma-encrusted boundaries. Motes of golden warmth, sparks of defiant power drifted in the pleasantly cool air beneath the failing Guard, as the sharp tang of ozone tickled Miranda’s nose. She turned her head, looking for the source, as the tall, imposing figure seemed to step from a crack in reality.

She recognized him, of course. One could not obtain the skill and knowledge she possessed without meeting the professors from Kathmandu; and even though she has not met their elusive leader personally, she has seen his face in the files of the Illusive Man, in newscasts, in intelligence reports. She wanted to laugh at the cruel fate that when she finally met such a pioneer of arcanoscience, it was under the liquid metal wings of a burning angel - and that such a person would throw away his life for people like her and the marines. 

The fiery monster halted for an eternal moments, before a voice of crackling tectonic plates and hissing, overpressurized magma rumbled forth from the featureless mask of flame-wrought metal. She could not understand the words, did not know the language, yet the boundless wrath, the all-consuming hunger and desire to see reality burn seeped into her soul, searing her mind for a moment, before a golden warmth embraced her.

+++THEY ARE MY PEOPLE, AND YOU SHALL NOT HAVE THEM.+++

And the confines of Yog-Sothoth’s Guard exploded with golden lightning, as Munir Yildirim stood before the angel of burning wrath.

* * *

Dark flames spread their fiery shadows as liquid metal surges eagerly forward, intent on swallowing and eradicating the shining figure in its path, to consume its power, to feed the furnace of its boundless wrath. Golden light pulses, stabbing deep into the titanic shape, burning away the flaming essence of the ascendant star-god, stopping the onslaught. Thunder rumbles above them, as jagged streaks of blue-white lightning tear into the molten red-black magma of the tortured sky, chasing the veins of flowing metal threading towards the distant star.

Tendrils of hungry flames lick at and start consuming the very flesh of the golden figure, before exploding away into droplets of emotions, as a pulse of righteous fury washes over them. A flash of light illuminates the darkness at the heart of the yawning, flame-wreathed black hole threatening to swallow the planet, and a blade of solidified golden lightning stabs into the heart of the titan. Dholen and Haestrom wail in pain, the heartsblood of stars flowing freely from the wound. 

The minuscule traces of life present at Haestrom unprotected by n-dimensional barriers perish as the vengeful gaze of the star-god sweeps over the field of battle, locking onto the shining figure with unending, boundless fury. Burning waves of cascading gravitic force and the flame-wreathed swathes of the electromagnetic spectrum seek to bury Munir Yildirim under the tidal waves of their combined force. Cold defiance and inhuman determination stop the avalanche of power in its tracks, the golden motes of power highlighting the spreading hoarfrost that weaves a web of stability over the surface of the disintegrating planet, its threads forming and reforming delicate geometric patterns. 

Lightning blade and flaming metal clash in a symphony of destruction, as the two beings duel at blistering speed too fast to follow, on a level too slow to perceive by mortal senses, the blades flashing at human height first before meeting again in the molten magma of Haestrom’s stratosphere. Droplets of golden light fall from the professor’s fire-torn wounds, the dark fire of the star-god greedily consuming the motes of power, only to scream with a voice of continental plates grinding together, as the antithetical energies burn the black hole pulsating within its womb.

Deep furrows are carved into the skin of Haestrom as the dueling gods unleash their powers. Veins of magma spew their hatred at the golden adversary, columns of smoke and noxious fumes coiling around him to suffocate and burn him away. Pyroclastic clouds and rivers of lava march against the lone beacon of defiance, eternal hunger and unending wrath pounding on his psyche with every moment the two spend locked in their endless duel. Pillars of black flames dance around the two, seeking to carve into the upstart newcomer daring to stand up to a nascent star-god. Lightning flashes in return, carving precise, deadly pathways into clouds, veins of magma and liquid metal alike. Golden power shines in a scintillating halo around the elder professor, as he defies the impossibility the will of the metallic angel of fire tries to impose on Haestrom. 

Dholen itself pulses in agony, its life and energy siphoned rapidly across the vast, minuscule distance of the magma-veined conduit of black metal, solar flares and shuddering antimatter. The lightminute-thick, torso-thin vein of sustenance trembles and howls in agony as hoarfrost spreads along the barely meter-long part of it that stretches for hundreds of thousands of kilometers all the way to the system’s star itself. Cracks spread across the surface of reality itself, the raw stuff of chaotic emotions bleeding through, the star-god shuddering with revolted satisfaction, as the morsels of that antithetical realm burn it as the wrathful vampire of flames and metal feeds on them in a desperate hunger of unending fury.

Light, darkness, time itself spirals down into an endless vortex limned by fangs of flame-wreathed, liquid metal, the transcendent parasite hurling oblivion at its adversary, intent on pushing the ancient anomaly beyond the reach of time itself, to erase all it was, is, and would be. The borders separating the dimensions buckle before tumbling down into the lightless depths, the star-god’s burning might leaving only the ashes of physical laws, before even those are snatched by the howling volcanic winds. For a fraction of a second lasting thousands of years, the golden figure seems to fall outside the boundaries of time.

Then, the fragile pattern etched by the thin tendrils of hoarfrost ignites with golden fire, interlocking planes of higher dimensions closing in on the metallic angel of fiery hunger. The feeder tendril connecting it with Dholen bleeds flames, stellar matter and power as the blade of solid lightning cuts deep, almost severing it. The skies of Haestrom roil and twist as the universal constants reassert themselves, the rampant, redirected power of the star-god turning back time for the planet itself, undoing much of the damage caused. Tectonic plates moan and howl with pyroclastic anger, black flames of antimatter surge forward to snuff out the golden light, only to be flayed away by a coruscating barrage of lightning.

Cracks form over the liquid metal of the star-god’s carapace, as the pressure of the higher dimensions forces it ever downwards, flensing away its very being layer by layer. The shrinking dome of power trembles under the constant barrage from within and without, the metallic vampire batters on the cage heralding its demise with burning wrath, black flames, molten magma; the flow of time shrieks and buckles as the ascended parasite attempts to reweave causality, redirect the trap that ensnared its might. To no avail; the cage is anchored too strongly, its focal points bleed their emotions, thoughts and desires, they wail and scream under the stress but they hold on, denying the star-god the chance to escape.

The wounded conduit of power connecting the figure of liquid metal with Dholen pulses with loathsome life and energy as the angel of fire drew on the already-tenuous connection to empower itself or at least to save its very being from the relentless pressure. Too little, too late. 

In the dark void beyond the system’s edge, motes of scintillating light started coalescing in firing chamber of the ancient Talisman. The dust of dreams, shards of nightmares, flares of passion merged with the screams of dead and dying, the pain of wounds, guilt of survival, fierce determination, joy of battle, terror, rage, awe - all that and more became encapsulated in those swirling points of impossible colors, fed and empowered by hundreds of trained minds, whose presence in that realm of emotions was so much stronger. The black void brightens, reality itself straining as the ancient mechanism hums ever stronger, building to a frenetic crescendo of insane unreality, a miniature star awakening to life in the darkness. Aboard the slender vessels accompanying the immense artifact, all crewmembers give way to their aeons-old hatred and rage, their warlocks and seers shaping, channeling the inferno of raw emotions to the shining crystalline mind of the Talisman itself, as the vortex of unnameable colors is born.

The scintillating, growing ball of light pulses with the heartbeat of imagination, of unreal potential, of the eternal wrath felt by the exiles towards those who brought them down; its tendrils of ethereal claws rip open the taut, thin veil of material reality, and then the impossible beam of incandescent light and power is born with a howl echoing in the mind of all sentients present in the Dholen system. The swirling, pulsing, immaterial beam races towards the bleeding, violated core of the system’s star, the physical, sane reality of the materium weeping and warping in its wake.

The already-weakened Dholen buckles beneath the punishing onslaught of the timeless grudge, the star fading, falling inwards before the coruscating beam of power battering at its core overloads the straining heart of the half-digested star, and it explodes outwards, spreading its own mindless pain and fury to swallow all who hurt and tormented it.

The surface of Haestrom burns under the lashes of stellar radiation, heralding the incoming firestorm. Already-weakened continental plates and vents tear further, rapidly disintegrating under the strain of forces still duelling on the planet. The wounded, diminishing star-god, severed from its cradle, tries to funnel the incoming power of Dholen’s death to replenish and rejuvenate itself, but only succeeds in throwing itself futilely at the bars of the dimensional cage. Too much of its very self has been flayed away already, too little attention has been given to the deceitful nature of its enemy. The nascent star-vampire fell to its own arrogance in believing itself stronger than the Dragon - and now it pays the price.

Gotha is consumed by the flames of the dying star, and destruction races towards the system’s edge. A seemingly-fragile private yacht and an Alliance frigate are running towards the still-operational mass relay, barely keeping ahead of the vanguard of Dholen’s fiery wrath. Charoum disintegrates under the lashing energy of the system’s star, and the core of the relay shifts to a baleful red, before the ancient structure pulses once, then simply falls apart.

The vengeance of the tortured star ignites the dying Haestrom, and the planet joins its two siblings in oblivion, before the fury of Dholen is spent, and the star falls inwards, collapsing into a fraction of its former size and majesty, leaving the system scorched of any trace of sentients.


End file.
